PS 3541 
.N65 S6 
i 1913 
Copy 1 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




ii:?. i 



THE SON AND HEIR 

OR 

THE ENGLISH 



1^ ■« 



I : ; , 5 



; ♦ 



r.A 



THE SON AND HEIR 



OR 



THE ENGLISH 



An Original Modern Comedy in Four Acts 



By 
GLADYS UNGER 



Copyright, 191 3, by Samuel French, Limited 



New York 

SAMUEL FRENCH 

Publisher 

28-30 WEST 38TH STREET 



London 

SAMUEL FRENCH. Ltd 

26 Southampton Street 

STRAND 



! •■ i • 






©CI.D 33776 



THE SON AND HEIR 

An original Play in Ji'otir , Acts by Gladys Ungcr, produced 
at the Strand Theatre, Loiidbn, oil Fcbruai^ i, 1913, with the 
following cast of characters : — ■ £ 



vSiR EVERARD TiTSY ChILWORTII, 

Bart., J. P. 

EvERARD TiTSY ChILWORTH, jntlT. 

Cecil Chilworth 

Pascoe Tandridge 

Felix Fouri6 . 

John Brock . 

Tidder (Butler) 

William (Footman) 

Lady Chilworth 

Beatrice Chil- \ 

WORTH Wishaw [ her daughters 
Amy Chilworth ) 



M-^. Isdmiiiid Maurice. 
M^. Max Leeds. 
Mr. Bobbie Andrews. 
Mr. Nohiiun Trevor. 
Mr. tiaymond Laurerte. 
MK /. Parish, kobertson. 
%k'r. Charles Daly, ' 
Mr. Lambert Plummer. 
Miss Cynthia Brooke. 
niis^ hthei irUng. 

Miss iithel Dane. 



MissTChilworth (Sir Everard's 

sister) .... Miss Jean Cadell. 

DoRMAN (Lady Chilworth^s 

maid) .... J^iss Mary Griffiths. 



The Action takes place at " Ledgers," Sm Hverard Titsy 
Chilworth's country seat in Hertfordshire, early in January. 



SCENERY 



SCi^mi. -The Hall. 



ACT II 



ScENK. —The Schoolroom. _. ,. 
Evening.' '" * 

■ ' • ^^ct lii 

S<;j;nic. —Beatrice Wish aw 's room. 
■\ ' . . Nieht. ' • 

\ , .- > \ ■■.:\ ■ : • ■ ■' ' . ' 

■ ■ ■■) ■..;'».• ^^ ACT IV ■•■ 

.\ >A .V,.,.-, ./, '. \ ■,'. ^ :'.-..■ /•'■l 
ScTcrtic. --77?.^ Breakfast-room. 

The next morning. 



The fee for each and every representation of this play 
by Amateurs is five guineas, payable in advance: - 

MESSRS. SAMUEL FRENCH, LTD., 

26, Southampton Street, 

Strand, London, 

Of their authorised representatives. 

No performance may be- -given unless a written 
permission has first been obtained. 

The costumes, wigs and properties used in the per- 
formance of plays contained in French's list may be 
hired or purchased reasonably from Messrs. Chas. 
H. Fox, Ltd,, 27, Wellington Street Strand, London. 



THE SON AND HEIR 

ACT I 

Sc|:ne. — The HaU at " Ledgers,'' a commodious 
Jacohean Manor House, restored ^ in the Georgian 
era, and now fitted with electric light and modern 
comforts. 

The hall is mostly furnished in Jacobean oak. No 
striving for the artistic — ike aspect m-crely of a well- 
ordered home that has been " lived in " for genera- 
tions. 

The scene affords a glimpse of the vestibule and front 
door of the house. The vestibule floor is tiled. The 
hall flooring is parquet, strewn with rugs. The vesti- 
bule is separated from the hall hy pillars. In the 
h(ill at back, a large ivindow, ivith seat, overlooks 
the carriage drive and a corner of the park. There 
are no curtains to this windoic, which is leaded. At 
rise one of the it'indoivs is on the latch. On the R. 
of window seat upper door R. leads to an inner hall. 
Below it, R.,an enormous Jacobean fireplace, with a 
tall oak settle at the upper end and an oak chair at 
the lower. On the open hearth a log fire is burning. 
Below mantel lower door leads to the main staircase. 
C. of hall a gate-legged table oak. Higher up, against 
the partition that separates the hall from the vestibule 
is a table with a post-box, time tables, etc. Scattered 
about are some straight-backed Stuart oak chairs. 
In the vestibule, an oak chest. There are no pictures 
at all, save one, and that is conspicuously placed over 
9 



10 THE SON AND HEIR. 

the mantelpiece. It is a, portrait of a young man 
on a hunter. 

(Discovered at Rise ;— Lady Chilwo'rth, Amy Chil- 
WORTH, and Miss Chilw.orth. Lady Ghilworth 
is a long-limbed, statuesque, clear-cut woman of 
forty- five, who has been a. great beauty and is still 
very handsome. Her mq-nner is intensely reserved ; 
she appears to he cold and abs.e.yit-minded. Her 
daughter Amy is a sweet delict^te-looking girl oftiventy- 
five, pretty and wistful and' ■ a trifle prim. Miss 
Agatha Chilworth is an embittered old maid of 
sixty, with an tngratiating manner a^id a grim deter- 
mination to inake herself indispensable in a cold 
world.) ' 

{At rise the three women are sitting around the fire, 
Lady Chilworth on the settee above mantel, Amy 
on chair below maantel and Miss Chilworth next 
to Lady Chilworth. All three are embroidering 
tea-cloths on round wooden frames. They are not 
talking — they have nothing to '■ say to each other. 
A dog is heard whining and scratching at the outer 
door.) ... 

Lady Chilworth. . Amy ! 
Amy {looking up). Yes, mother?^. 
Lady Chilworth. One of the. dogs. is scratching 

at the door. Send it away. ,. 

Amy {rising, crosses c.) . But suppose it's one of 

Everard's beagles — may I let it in ? {Goes up c, 

puts work o-n table.) ■ •■••'■..■ 

Lady Chilworth. Even so,, youf iather doesn't 

like the dogs .indoor^;. ': .:.V ' • = 

Amy {crosses to table. c): Pll take' it back to the 

kennels. ••,•.'• 

Miss Chilworth {who 'Has risen,' crosses above 

table). Oh, let me do that for.ypu, Amy dear. 

Amy (r. of table). Vou don't know where the 

kennels are, :. Aunt Agathia. : ' • ' ' 

Miss Chilworth (smdling sarcastically). Don't I ? 



THE SON AND HEIR. u 

■ You. forget I lived here, Amy, before my poor dear 
father died. ■■■ 

Amy. Oh, but it's all been changed since then, 
{Going up L.) ^ .; , 

Miss Chilworth {c. bitterly). I know it's a long 
time ago. .. .. , 

Amy {pausing at entrance. to. vestibule). I .didn't 
mean that, Aunt Agatha, but the kennels were 
moved when the garage for Everard's motor was 
built last spring. (Puts on a coat that is on settle in 
vestibule.) 

Miss Chilworth. Oh! (With emphasis.) In- 
deed ? I couldn't be expected to know that, as I'm 
only asked to " Ledgers " once a year. 

Lady Chilworth (quietly). The dog is scratching 
again, Amy. 

(Amy goes up.) 

Amy (opening front door). Poor old Jack ! (Stoop- 
ing to take it by collar.) Back you go.. \^ou know 
you're not allowed in here, old boy. 

(She disappears, leaving front door ivide open.. In 
a second she is seen through the window passing 
from L. to r. on her way to the kennels.) 

(Miss Chilworth resumes her seat and her work . 
She opens her mouth once or twice to chat to her sister- 
in-law, but thinks better of it. There is a silence . 
Door -R.v. opens. Enter William the footman.) 

William (coming to Lady Chil worth). The run- 
Tack has just come, m'lady . 

Lady Chilworth. What gunrack ? 

William. Mr. Everard's, m'lady. • Will you' say 
where it's to go ? 

Lady Chilworth. I'll come at once. 

(Exit William dopr_R,v.) 

Miss Chilworth (rising). Let me- do it for you, 
•my dear Mary. . ; .: • 



12 TtiE soiy iMti iifeiit. 

Lady ChilwoRth {rises, puiiing dbwn her work], 
Ko, no, thank you. . i 

Miss ChilwOrth. Yoiir gueJ^t^^ iiidy atrive at any 
moment. Oughtn't you to i?c here ? 

Lady Chilworth {going): Evqrdrdi Ni^ill be an- 
noyed if the gunrack isn't placed as he wishes. I 
irlust see td it itiyself. 

{She goes out hastily R. lower entrance.) 

(Miss CuIlworth alone,, bridles, then resumes her 
seat. Enter door r.u. DorMan, a plump, middle- 
aged, respectable, sleek lady's maid. She looks for 
Lady Chilworth, and seeing she is not in the hall, 
starts to go out.) 

Miss Chilworth (patronizingly). Ah, Dorman, 
what is it ? . i ,v 

DoRMAN (by settee). , Tliarik ydii, Miss. I wanted 
her ladyship. (Going.j , , 

Miss Chilworth. Won't 1 ,cl6 ^ (Goes to her.} 

DoRMAN. No, miss, I watltect to khdw something. 

Miss Chilworth. Well, I'll tell ydii. Are you in 
some difficulty ? 

Dorman (grudgingly). It's about Mister Everard's 
things that I have to mend. 

Miss Chilworth (rising, important). I'll go with 
you and see to them at once. {Up R.J 

Dorman (protesting). Mister Everard is so very 
particular, miss, about his silk socks and what not 

Miss Chilworth (triumphant at finding something 
to manage). Just show therri to me, my good Dor- 
man, and I'll put you right. 

Dorman. But 

(Pascoe and Felix are seen crossing) 

(Miss Chilworth and Dorman go out together 
door r.u.e.) 

{For a second the stage is ^nipty. Then tivo young 
men walk in the open front door. They are Pascoe 



THE SON AND HEIH- 13 

Tanpridge and Felix Fourie. Pascoe is a 
handsome Englishman of thirty -five— not the athletic 
type — but the lettered dilletante, who has travelled 
more for knowledge than for the shooting. Felix 
Fourie is a typical modern young Parisian, who 
might he taken on sight for an Englishman — his 
clothes are almost aggressively British. But his 
airy self-complacent manner, his volubility and his 
quick movements betray him. He speaks English 
without accent, but far more rapidly tha^i ajt English- 
man, and he interpolates the slang he has picked up 
with great gusto. Pascoe strides in through vesti- 
bule the first.) 



Pascoe (looking around). Hum! No one about. 
(r. of settee.) 

Felix {follG'wing him into hall). Are we there, 
Pascoe ? {Coming ^own E.) 

Pascoe. V\^e ore, Felix. 

Felix. My \vctrcl [ What a walk ! {Sits chair 
at bureau l.) 

Pascoe. That >vas nothing. It's only two miles 
from the station ))y tlie short cut we took. 

Felix. Tvv'o ? '{Tali^s gloves off.) It is six! 
My legs say it is six. { would have taken the car- 
riage sent to meet us if my legs had known sooner. 

Pascoe. I was determined to get your cir- 
culation up. Yoif'ye done nothing but complain 
of the cold since you arrived from Paris yesterday. 

Felix. Pouff ! {Rises.) I am too hot now. 
{Goes up.) 

Pascoe {going up l.). You won't be for long. 
(Bus. with coat.) 

Felix. Rathbr nqt. {Takes his coat off.) For 
the first thing E|iglish peopie do when they come into, 
a draughty room on a cold day is to say " By Jove, 
how hot ! " and open another window. (Pitts coat 
down.) 



14 THE SON AND HEIR.' 

Pascoe [taking off Ms coat at table)'. Then let's 
make ourselves comfortable before any one turns up. 
{Puts coat down.) ■ 

Felix. Why is our hostess not here to receive 
us? {Crosses down i..) 

Pascoe [carelessly, crosses to fireplace). Don't 
know. The Chilworths never stand on ceremony 
with me. Sir Everard and father were up at Oxford 
together, you know. 

Felix. Ah, yes. [Crosses to c) And with you 
English it is the rule tha;t the longer you know people 
the ruder you can be. 

Pascoe. Not ruder — merely more natural. [Turns 
to fire.) 

Felix. The same thing ! Oh, I do not criticise ! 
[Crosses to PascoE.) I observe ! I delight. You 
know how I love England ! There is such charm 
in a country where, the upper classes never apologise 
and the lower classes beg pardon for nothing. 

Pascoe [chaffing). My dear Felix, you really must 
write your impressions of England. I feel that they 
would be — er— priceless. 

Felix [taking him seriously). That is what I am 
about, old chap. And be sure I will do your nation 
justice, not only because England is now " The 
Rage " in France, but because of your unspeakable 
kindness to me. 

Pascoe. My what ? [Standing by fire.) 

Felix [genuinely moved, putting his hand on' 
Pascoe's shoulder). Old chap, you have taken me out 
of what you call a " big hole." 

PasCoe [surprised). Have I? Good! But tell 
me how ? 

Felix [reluctantly). You really wish to know? "^^ 

Pascoe. Of course. Your unusual reticence has 
thoroughly roused my curiosity. ■ What's up ? The 
mere determination to write a book on England doesn't 
explain your mad haste. ' Why this secret, sudden 
longing to explore a British home ? 



THE SON AND HEIR. 15 

Felix (nerving himself). Well, I will tell you, as 
man to man under the rose.- 

(Pascoe sits chair by fire.) 

(With a burst of fluency.) It waS like this. A power- 
ful French editor comes to me and says "Felix, 
my bo3^ I am bringing out a series of articles on Great 
Britain, You are the writer to help me. You were 
once at an English school, you speak their slang, you 
like their tailors,* you know how to box, you read 
Lord Byron. Twill therefore give you the branch of 
' English Family Life.' " 

Pascoe. Very complimentary and conMing of 
the powerful French editor. 

Felix. Unfortunately this happens in Maman's 
drawing-room. . . 

(Starts to check siage lights also outside.) 

Pascoe. Didn't that splendid "Madame Mere" 
of yours want you to write the articles ? 

Felix. Naturally! They arc well paid. Only — 
alas — Maman exclaims to the powerful editor, " Oh, 
Felix will turn those out quickly. He has lived so 
much in England." (Groans : goes up to settee.) 

Pascoe. But you, haven't. 

Felix. No. (Sits settee.) I deceived Maman to 
get away from home. (Sits.) 

Pascoe. Ah; this comes of reading Byron. (Rises, 
crosses l.) ■ . , .' 

Felix. No. It began before I had read him. A 
little work girl. She is ripping. She adores me. 

Pascoe. The immortal little French milliner ? 

Felix, No. She is cashier in a factory in Lille. 
As I love her truly it would worry Maman, So 
out of respect for Maman, I lied, to her. 

Pascoe. How did you account "for your absences^ ? 

Felix. I said I was having a love affair at Dover 
with an English married wonian. 



16 THE SON AND HEIR. 

Pascoe. Great Scott ! {Goes up lo overcoat for 
handkerchief) 

Felix. Maman was pleased. She thought it 
so good for my pronunciation. 

Pascoe. Well, Fate has avenged my country- 
women. {Comes out of vestibule. 

Felix. Yes. {Rises and crosses to Pascoe.) 
For now I must what you call " cram " my know- 
ledge of English family life. 

Pascoe. And Fye got to be your crammer, eh, 
you desperate French dog you ! Well, you ha(| 
better luck than you deserve when I chose " Ledgers " 
for your first visit. The Chilworths are thoroughly 
typical. 

Felix. One moment. {Going up.) It is too 
warm on one si4p of this room. But by Jove I 
it is too cold on the other. {He closes window.) 
What was that you said about the Chilworths'? 
{Joins Pascoe.) 

Pascoe. They're a typical county family — a little 
clan apart {Cofnes down and sits settee l. of table.) — 
a tribe by themselves — as much as if they were 
^edouins in the desert. Their relations with the 
outside world are |)ut so many truces. They parley 
but never mingle. They go to Court, but they're not 
Court circle. They hunt, but they don't belong to the 
hunting set. They never quite leave the shade of their 
own family tree. 

Felix. Ah, tl^ey are an old nobility ? {Sik r. 
of table.) 

Pascoe. No. The baronetcy only dates from 
seventeen something. 

Felix. A respectable age. And if the title was 
bestowed for some great service to the country — 
for valour on the battleheld 

Pascoe. It \yas bestowed for the invention of a 
hair powder that suited a florid lady friend of George 
the Second's. The first Baronet was a hairdresser 
named Titsy. 



THE SON AND HEIR. 17 

Felix. Ah! A profession admitting of great 
possibilities. 

Pascoe. True, for he eloped with an heiress of -the 
old Enghsh family of Chilworth. 

Felix. And are the Chilworths rich ? 

Pascoe. Not very. They've thought less of 
money than of the race. They generally marry into 
healthy stock. 

Felix. To marry for health !. {Rise, cross to c.) 
How cold-blooded ! Then a Chilworth only holds 
his fiancees's hand to count her pulse and before he 
kisses her he says, '' Kindly put out vour tongue. 
Miss." Eh, Vvliat ? 

Pascoe (rises, crosses c. to Felix). Yes, and before 
a Fourie marries he counts his fiancee's money and 
says, " Kindly put dovm your securities, Made- 
moiselle." Eh, what ? 

Felix (smilins; pensively). Oh, I shall not worry 
about those sordid details. {Pause.) Maman will 
see to them. 

{Enter Lady Chilworth r. lower entrance.) 

Lady Chilworth. Oh ! You here, Pascoe ? 
{Crosses to Pascoe.) 

Pascoe i^^oing to her). How do you do, Lady 
Chilworth ? 

Lady Chilworth {shaking hands ivith him briefly). 
How are you ? 

Pascoe. Very fit, thanks. Let me introduce my 
friend Monsieur Fourie, Lady Chilworth. 

Lady Chilworth {giving Felix a limp hand). 
How do you do ? 

Lady Chilworth. 
Fourie. Pascoe. 

Felix. Enchanted to make your acquaintance, 
my dear Lady Chilworth. {Kisses her hand.) 

{She draws it back quickly.) 



18 THE SON AND HEIR. 

Lady Chilworth. It seems very warm in here. 
Will you open a window, Pascoe ? 

Pascoe {looking at Felix, maliciously). With 
pleasure. {He goes up and opens window at hack.) 

Felix. It was jolly of you, Lady Chilworth, to 
let me visit you so unexpectedly. 

Lady Chilworth. Oh, I didn't. It was Sir 
Everard. He did not tell me you were coming 
until this morning. {Goes to settee.) 

Felix {pained). Have I inconvenienced you ? 

Lady Chilworth {murmur ing). Not at all. {Sits 
settee.) 

Felix. I would never forgive myself. I have 
heard such ripping things of you. {By l. of settee.) 

Lady Chilworth {mildly astonished). Have you ? 
Won't you sit down ? {She takes up her work.) 

(Pascoe comes doimi and watches Felix with quiet 
enjoyment.) 

Felix {sits settee beside her). The fame of your 
ladyship's beauty is wide spread. 

LaDY Chilworth (^incredulously). My beauty? 
Felix. You seem surprised. 

(Pascoe comes c, sits chair r. of table.) 

Lady Chilworth. It's so long since I heard it 
mentioned. 

Felix {rises). You should come to France. 

Lady Chilworth. What for ? 

Felix. To hear {getting nearer to her) the things 
a woman should never be long without hearing. 

Lady Chilworth. Oh, you forget — I have grown- 
up children. 

(Pascoe sits r. of table.) 

Felix." I should always forget tliat in your lady- 
ship's presence. 

{Enter door R.u. Tidder, an elderly butler.) 



THE SON AND HEIR. m 

Lady Chilworth {embarrassed). I wonder where 
Amy is. 

TiDDER {commg straight to Pascoe). Your lug- 
gage has come from the station, sir. Could you 
oblige me with your key ? [Presents salver.) 

Pascoe. There it is. [Gives him key.) 

TiDDER. Thank you, sir. 

Pascoe [shakes hands.). How are you, Tidder ? 

TiDDER. Very pleased to see you back, Mr. 
Tandridge, sir. [He hows and goes to Felix mjith 
the salver.) 

Pascoe. Give Tidder your key, Felix, and he'll 
unpack your things. 

Felix [rises, feeling feverishly in his pockets). 
My key — my key. [Remembering.) Ah ! The key 
of my large bag is in my small bag and the key of 
my small bag is lost. [Sits.) 

Tidder. Thank you, sir. 

[Exit door R.u.) 

Felix [quickly resuming the conquest of Lady 
Chilworth). Do you come to London often? 

Lady Chilworth. Oh no, never. 

Pascoe [surprised). Why, you used to spend a 
few weeks in town every season. Lady Chilworth. 

Lady Chilworth. We've had to give them up now 
that Everard is at Oxford. 

Felix. And Paris ? 

Lady Chilworth. I was there once when I was a 
girl. I didn't care for it. 

Felix. You did not care for Paris ? Yet you 
are " smart ! " [He looks appreciatively at her gown.) ^ 

Lady Chilworth [flushing with pleasure). This 
came from Angelique. 

Felix [triumphantly; turns to Pascoe). Ah! 
A Frenchwoman ! 

Lady Chilworth. No. English. I was careful 
to inquire. Sir Everard doesn't like French fashions. 



20; THE SON AN D^ HEIR. 

Felix {turns to Lady Chilworth). Yet he ap- 
proves of this ; gpwn ? 

Lady Chilworth {wondering) . I suppose he must. 
He never sakl he didn't. 

FjELix {faces Pascoe, then turns to Lady Chil- 
worth). Then -he tolerates the devil unawares. 
{Indicating dress :'^ardthoritatively .) It is a Callot model. 

Lady Chilworth {alarmed at his uncanny know- 
ledge). Oh! ,1 must speak to Angelique severely 
about it. 

{Enter. Miss Chilworth lower door r.) 

Miss Chilworth {crosses to Pascoe). Ah! vSo 
you've arrived, Pascoe ? " 

(Pascoe vises and shakes hands with her.) 

I haven't seen you for a long time. {Significantly.) 
I'm so seldom at " Ledgers." And this, I can see, is 
your French ' friend 

(Felix comes dow7i to Miss Chilworth.) 

Pascoe. Let me introduce you. Monsieur Fourie, 
Miss Chilworth. 
, Felix. Enchanted to meet you, Miss Chilworth. 

Miss Chilworth. Ah ! How nice and French 
that sounds; Yours is such an expressive language, 
isn't it ? 

Felix. Quite so, Miss Cfiiluorth, hut I thought 
I was speaking Enghsh. 

Miss Chilworth {meaning to flatter him). So you 
were. But sxiy one could tell you were foreign by 
that fascinating little accent. 

(Felix very annoyed. Miss Chilworth crosses to 
Lady Chilworth. Pascoe joins Felix and 
they go up to i&indow.) 

{To the latter, half confidentially.) I've just been 
helping Dor man out of a difficulty. 



THE SON AND HEIR.' 21 

Lady Chilworth {looking up inquinngly). Oh! 

Miss Chilworth. Some things of Everard's. 

Lady Chilworth. Everard's? {Rising hastily.) 
I must see what you've been doing. {Puis her ivork 
down, goes down R.) 

Miss Chilworth {aggrieved, rises). I meant to 
save you the trouble. 

Lady Chilworth {going r.) Everard is so par- 
ticukr. If he's put out he'll complam to his father 

and 

{Exit by door, Uniuer door R.) 

Miss Chilworth {following her off). But, my dear 
Mary, I told Dorman exactly what to do [and— ^ 

{Exit.) 

(Felix and Pascoe come down c.) 

Felix. Ah ! Who is the elderly lady who makes 
herself too useful ? 

Pascoe {crosses to fireplace). Sir Edward's sister. 

Felix {by fire). She enrages her sister-in-law. 
But then, so do you, old chap. 

Pascoe {surprised). Why, what makes you tliink 
Lady Chilworth is angry with me ? 

Felix. You are an old family friend. ■ Your father 
was up at Oxford— the butler is pleased to see you. 
Yet when you arrive there is no warmtli, no cordial 
greeting, no affection displayed. All she says is, 
" You come, Pascoe ? " ■ 

Pascoe. Bless me, that's not a sign of anger! 
That merely shows on what good terms' we are. 

{Warn lights.) 

Felix. By Jove ! {Goes c.) What the deuce 
would it be if she loved you ? Then she would not 
speak to you at all, eh, what ? 

Pascoe. I suppose we don't waste much time on 
what you call " the formulas of politeness." 



22 THE SON AND HEIR. 

Felix (c.) . In fact, you are what you call " damned 
casual." 

Pascoe. As bad as that ? {Sits r. settee.) 

Felix (goes to l. of settee). Why, in France our 
host and hostess would meet us at the station. Or 
if, by some terrible accident, they were prevented, 
our hostess would rush in all excuses. Having kissed 
you on both cheeks she would explain in detail how 
the deplorable breach of courtesy happened ; she 
would then inquire after our healths and our 
estteemed mothers' healths. And by this time, the 
lady being out of breath, it would be for us to de- 
scribe in detail the accidents and adventures of our 
railway journey from town. [Takes a step hack- 
wards towards c.) 

Pascoe. Now I know why the French travel so 
little. 

(Amy Chilworth is seen through windo"d> passing 
outside from r. to l.) 

Felix {turns to window). Ah ! Look ! A young- 
woman ! Not bad at all. Who is she ? 

Pascoe. It's Amy Chilworth— the younger 
daughter. 

Felix. Where is the other one ? {Coming doivn 
a little.) 

Pascoe {stops by chair at head of table c.) Oh, 
she's married. {Crosses l.) 

(Amy comes in the front door, closes it behind her, 
and comes through vestibule into hall.) 

Amy {steppiitg in). Oh, you here, Pascoe ? {Puts 
coat down.) 

(Felix gives a little squeak at the familiar greeting. 
Amy looks at him surprised.) 

{Enter William door r.u. He turns the lights on) 



THE SON AND EHIR. 23 

Pascoe {shaking hands with Amy). How are you, 
Amy ? 

(Lights.) 

Amy [putting back her hair). Very untidy. I've 
been down to the kennels. 

(Felix plucks Pascoe' s sleeve.) 

Pascoe {introducing). This is my friend Felix 
Fourie — Miss Am}^ Chilworth. 

Amy {giving Felix her hand). How do you do ? 

Felix. Oh, you here, Miss Chilworth ? Beastly 
hot, what ? 

Amy {opening her eyes). I beg your pardon ? 
{Takes her coat off). 

(Gong.) 

Pascoe. You mustn't mind Felix's little collo- 
quialisms, Amy. He's only just got beyond "the 
pen of the milkman is in the hat of the gardener's 
aunt." {Takes her coat and goes up and puts it on 
settle in vestibule). 

(William has gone out upper door r. to ring the gon g 
for tea. As it dies away, enter John Brock arc h 
c. lower door r. He is a well set-up, earnest-lookin g 
young man.) 

Pascoe {starting forward). Why, if it isn't John 
Brock ! 
Brock {crossing to Pascoe l.) Tandridge ! 

{They shake hands cordially.) 

Pascoe. I had no idea you were at " Ledgers," 
Brock. I heard you were schoolmastering. 

Amy {looking at Brock with an unconscious look of 
proprietorship). So he is — in a poky preparatory 
school at Eastbourne. (Coming down.) 



M THE SON AND HEIR. 

* Vascoe {to Brock). Hovv' about your archaeolo- 
gical work ? 

Brock. Oh, I hope to be able to take it up again 
later on. It's not very lucrative, you know. 

Am y (in an awestruck voice). He's just published 
a won derful monograph on Greek vases in the Hellenic 
Ma^a zine. 

Brock {shaking his head at Amy). Don't believe 
Miss Chilworth, Tandridge. She exaggerates. {Cross 
with Fascob by bureau.) 

Pascoe. I shall look it up. On holiday, now? 

(Amy talks to Felix.) . 

Brock. I'm here coaching Everard. 

(William has re-entered door i].R.,yolhm'edby Tidder 
with tea-urn, which he places on table c. William 
brings stand with bread and butter, cakes, etc. Re- 
enter Miss Chilworth Urwer door r.) 



Pascoe. Oh ! That's no holiday. {To Felix.) 
This is an old chum of mine. We were at New 
College together. 

Felix. Ah ! {Cross to Brock.) How very in- 
teresting. And was he your fag at College ? 

Miss Chilworth {m.aking straight for the tea-table, 
to Felix). My sister-in-law has been called to the 
telephone, so I will pour the tea. {Sits behind urn.) 

i Amy goes up to Miss Chilworth. Brock sits 
at bureau l. against wall and writes a letter.) 

{Exeunt William and Tidder u.r.) 

Felix {rubbing his hands). Ah ! Tea ! {Up a 
little L. of table.) 

Miss Chilworth {pouring lea). I thought French 
3 people didn't care for it. 

(Amy standing.) 



THE SON AND HEIR. ■'§5 

Felix. Oh, believe me, we are awfully civilized^ 
now. {Gives Amy cup.) 

(Amy takes cup to Pascoe aitd then takes cake stan^. 
from TiDDER.) 

Pascoe [crosses to Amy). Where are Sir Evcrard 
and the boys ? 

Miss Chilworth. They're hunting. They gener- 
ally get back for tea. 

Amy. It's Cecil's first day with the liounds-' 
{Crosses with tea to Pascoe, c.) 

Pascoe. Really ? Good boy 1 {Crosses io fire-- 
place, sits settee.) 

Miss Chilworti-i. For you, Monsieur Fourie. 
{Gives Felix tea.) Let's hope the dear lad does 
nicely. 

(Enter Lady Chilworth lower door r. crosses to tea 
table.) 

Lady Chilworth. Agatha ! 

(Felix 'comes to chair and. sits.) 

Miss Chilworth {looking up in surprise). Oh! 
Hadn't I better go on ? {Rises.) 

Lady Chilworth {firmly). Please don't trouble. 

(Miss Chilworth resigns her place reluctantly.) 

Monsieur Fourie, will you have some cake ? 

(Amy offers cake to Felix.) 

{Sitting behind urn.) Who do you think we're ex- 
pecting, Pascoe ? 

Pascoe. I can't guess, {rises), Lady Chilworth. 

(Amy crosses to chair by Lady Chilworth.) 

Lady Chilworth. Beatrice ! 
Pascoe (c). Beatrice! 

Amy. We see Bee so seldom, nowadays. {Crosses 
to settee with cake, Felix takes cake.) 



26 THE SON AND HEIR. 

Miss Chilworth. She only sent word she was 
coming yesterday — (sits R. of table) quite suddenly 
— about the time you did, Pascoe. 

Pascoe. Indeed ! 

(Amy crosses to Brock.) 

Lady Chilworth, She's just telephoned that a 
puncture has delayed her. 

Pascoe. Then she's motoring from her husband's 
place — what's the name of it ? 

Miss Chilworth. BeUingham Park. I've never 
been there. But surely they've invited you ? 

(Amy crosses to Lady Chilworth.) 

Pascoe. I think they did, about four years ago — 
soon after Beatrice was married. But something 
kept me from going. {Sits settee.) 

Lady Chilworth. Mr. Brock. (Hands cup to 
Amy.) 

(Felix hands cup to Miss Chilw^orth.) 

Amy (who has been standing at her mother's elbow). 
Mother, you've given Mr. Brock two lumps of sugar. 
He doesn't take any at all. 

Lady Chilworth. Oh, sorry. (She changes the 
cup.) 

Brock (rises from bureau). Oh, that's all right. 
{Meets Amy; takes cup). Thanks, Miss Chilworth. 

{Enter door r.u. Cecil Chilworth, a fine lad of 
twelve in a brown riding suit.) 

Cecil (flushed and excited) . Oh, I say, what do you 
think? (c). 

Lady Chilworth. Take off your cap, Cecil, lower 
your voice and speak to Pascoe Tandridge and his 
friend. 

(Amy crosses to Pascoe and sits settee by fire.) 

Cecil (by Lady Chilworth. Dampened). Yes» 



THE SON. AND HEIR. 27 

mother. [He tOtkes of his cap and comes quickly down 
to Felix, then Pascoe.) How do you do ? How do 
you do ? 

Pascoe {rises: shaking the boy's hand). Hello, 
Cecil, what's this I hear ? Your first day with the 
hounds ? What luck ! 

Cecil (bursting forth). Rotten. There's been an 
accident. [Comes c.) 

Lady Chilworth and Amy {both deeply alarmed 
but not betraying it). An accident ? 

Lady Chilworth (petrified in her chair). Not — 
not your father ? 

Cecil. Oh, no ! 

Lady Chilworth. Or Everard ? 

Cecil. He's all right. But it was his fault. 
He made me get down and open a gate for him.. It 
was then that — that my pony kicked his mare. 

Lady Chilworth (rising quickly). The mare's 
hurt ? 

Amy (rises). The mare ? (Comes c.) 

Cecil. It was all we could do to get her home. 
Everard took my pon}^ and I had to walk. 

Lady Chilv/orth. Your father will be furious. 
(Sits.) 

(Amy sits on settee by Pascoe.) 

Cecil. He is — he's in the stable with Everard 
and the mare. (As door r.u. opens.) Oh, here he is. 

(Goes up to table by xvindow, puts hat and gloves down.) 

(Enter Sir EveRarD Chilworth in pink. He is a 
haiidsome, well set-up Englishman of the country 
squire type, with thick grey hair and afresh colouring. 
He's fifty but doesn't look it. He feels that to be 
cordial and cheery is somehow the duty of an English 
host, so he assumes a hearty manner that does not 
always ring quite true. In reality he's an austere, 
unimaginative m-an with an iron will and a bad 
temper.) 



28 THE SON AND HEIR. 

Sir Everard [comes down). ^ Oh, you, here, Tan- 
dridge ? (Shakes hands.) Biroiiglit your French 
friend ? That's right. (Crosses l.) Very glad to 
welcome you, Monsieur Fourie. , 

(Felix rises ; Sir JLYERARD'shakes hands with Felix.) 

Felix. You are too kind. Sir Everard. 
Sir Everard. Not at all I 

(Felix sils.) 

Had your tea ? That's right [Cross to Pascoe — 
slapping Fascoe on the shoulder.)' -How are you, my 
boy ? [Without waiting for an answer.) Have you 
heard the mess this young cub landed us in ? 

[Points with his crop to Cecil, who stands shifting 
from one foot to another by cake stand heloii) table 
c.) 

Cecil [murmuring). It wasn't ray fault. 

Sir Everard. Don't argue with me. 

Cecil. But I thought—— [Crosses to Sir 
Everard.) 

Sir Everard. You have no right to think. 

Cecil (gulping). Everard shouldn't have made me 
get down on my first day out. 

Sir Everard. First day or fiftieth day Everard 
has a perfect right to make, you get down. Isn't he 
your elder brother ? 

Cecil. It wasn't my fault. 

Sir Everard [keeping his temper with difficulty). 
You had no business to leave your pony so close to 
the mare. Don't contradict me again. 

(Amy crosses to Lady Cm l worth.) 

Cecil [obstinately). It wasn't my fault. 

Sir Everard [quietly, turns him round). That'll 
do. We'll continue this conversation at seven 
o'clock in my study. Do you hear ? 



THE. SQN AND HEIR. 29 

Cecil {coolly). ,Yo$, .sir. {With bravado). Can I 
have some tea, mother? 

{Takes cake , crosses l.,' goes rozmd settee and meets Amy 
at head of it. Sir Everard ^w/s his crop on window, 
seat— also gloves. Enter door R.u. Everard 
Chilvvorth also in pink. He is a weedy, dissi- 
paled-looking youth of twenty, snappy and spoilt.) 

Sir Everard {turning, his face lighting up at 
mere sight of his eldest son). Well, Everard? 

Everard. No go., Tickler telephoned the vet, but 
the fool was out. 

Sir Everard. Did, you leave a message for him 
to come at once ? 

Everard. Of course. Give me some tea, mother/ 
{Comes c.) Hello, Tandridge {shakes hands), this 
is a nice beginning for your visit, ain't it ? Goin' 
to stay long ? 

Pascoe. No. I must get back to town to-morrow. 
But your father has taken my friend Fourie in for 
longer. {Cross to fable.) 

Everard {crosses to Felix r., giving him a hand). 
How d'ye do ? 

Felix {rises). I much deplore this rotten accident 
to your fine horse. 

(Pascoe crosses with cup, to table then joins Sir Ever- 
ard. Miss Chilwortk brings tea to Everard c. 
then sits l. of settee,) ' 

Everard {taking tea Miss Crii^wokir brings him). 
Hard lines on a fellow, isn't it ? 

Amy. Cake, Everard ? 

Everard {to Amy). No thanks. What would 
you do in France v/ith a young brother like that? 
{Drinks tea.) 

Felix. Oh, we v^^ouid never ask him to open our 
gates again. {Sih settee l.) . 



30 THE SON AND HEIR. 

EvERARD {putting dozmi tea cvip). Poisonous stuff ! 
Must have been standing a year. 

Lady Chilworth {distressed, rises, crosses to bell 
L. then sits on settle). I'm very sorry, Everard. I'll 
ring for some fresh at once. 

Everard {sarcastically ; goes r.). Oh, don't 
trouble about me. I'm going back to the stable, 
anyhow. 

Brock {rising, coming to Everard). I wanted 
you to do some work before dinner. 

Everard (c). Out of the question, Brock. Do 
I look in a mood for work ? 

Brock. We ought to get through some Caesar 
to-day. 

Sir Everard {coming down ; quite kindly). My 
dear Brock, don't you see the boy's got something on 
his mind ? You can't expect him to tackle Caesar 
before he's seen the vet. 

Brock {with tightened lips) . Very well, sir. 

{Exits by door, lower door r. looking down.) 

Sir Everard {to Felix). A good honest fellow 
that, but no tact — no tact. {Crosses to Everard.) 

Felix. Ah, tact is seldom a gift of scholars. 
{Crosses luith basket.) 

Everard [at fireplace, takes cigarette). I suppose 
it's something one can't expect in a poor devil of a 
crammer. 

Amy {by writing desk). Everard. 

Pascoe {easily, without any appearance of reproof ; 
as if it was all for Fklix' s benefit). Brock's a type of 
Englishman we ought to be proud of. Not a soul in 
the world to help him as a boy. Worked his way 
through College on scholarships. Any amount of 
grit. I admire him immensely. 

(Amy looks at him gratefully.) 

Everard {by mantelpiece). These are rotten 
cigarettes. 



THE SON AND HEIR. 31 

Lady Chilworth {to Miss Chilvvorth) . Have you 
any scissors ? 
Miss Chilworth. No. 
Lady Chilworth. Amy ! 

(Amy crosses r. to table, gets scissors then comes down 
to settle by fire.) 

{Enter Tidder and William upper door r, for the 
tea things. Cecil reserves several plates of cakes 
and his cup and carrying them into a corner makes a 
copious tea.) 

EvERARD. Oh, Tidder, bring me a whisky and 
soda in the stable. 

Tidder. Very good, sir. 

Sir Everard {to Everard). Oh, are you going? 
{Comes down.) 

Everard. Yes, I want to see how she's gettin' 
on. 

{Exit.) 

Miss Chilworth. Dear boy, how he loves animals f 

{The tivo servants carry the tea things out door R.u. 
Lady Chilworth, Miss Chilworth and Amy 
{who turns up light on table up c. and sits on win- 
dow seat) resume their various embroideries. Lady 
Chilworth crosses to Cecil. Pascoe goes and 
sits settee L. of table.) 

Felix {rises ; taking out his cigar eette case). Is 
one permitted to smoke here ? {Comes c.) 

Miss Chilworth. Oh yes, we're very liberal here. 
You may smoke all over the house — except in the 
bedrooms, and dining-room and drawing-room and 
the morning-room and the library. 

Sir Everard {with a resentful glance at Miss Chil- 
worth). My sister leaves us the hall, Fourie. 
{Offering his own case.) Here, have one of mine. 
You'll find the matches there. 



32 THE SON AND HEIR. 

(Felix crosses to fireplace.) 

(Offering case to Pascoe.) It's a long time since we 
had you down, Pascoe. {Sits r. of table.) 

Pascoe. I work too hard to get away much these 
days, Sir Everard. 

Sir Everard {sits r. of table). Ah, you're making 
money. How surprised your father would have 
been. 

Pascoe. Dear old Dad ! 

Sir Everard. I bought one of your books. 
Didn't it have a green paper cover with a dragon on 
it ? 

Pascoe. That was the cheap edition. 

Felix {by fireplace). A real work of art ! It was 
actually reviewed in Paris. People said " Here is an 
Englishman who writes almost as well as if he were 
French I " 

Sir Everard. I'm bound to say I enjoyed it. 
Though I don't suppose I should ever have read it 
if I hadn't rowed in the same boat with Pascoe's 
father. 

(Felix crosses c.) 

Of course I had to forbid my young people to read it. 

Felix. Naturally. {Crosses to chair r. of table.) 
Pascoe's opinions are not for girls and boys. 
/ Sir Everard. Ah, I'm glad to hear you say that, 
Monsieur Fourie. 

Felix. Do you remember that wonderful pas- 
sage where the courtesan goes clown on her knees 
and 

Sir Everard {tur^iing quickly to look for Cecil). 
Oh, Cecil, go and see if the vet's come yet. 

Cecil (rising and putting down cake). Yes, father. 

{Exit door l.r.) 

Sir Eveard {to Felix). Excuse me for interrupt- 
ing you. 



THE SON AND HEIR. 33 

Felix {resuming with serene unconsciousness). 
That passage where the courtesan 

Lady Chilworth {looking up). Amy, go and 
tell Dorman I'm coming up to rest before dinner. . , 

Amy {rising and taking her embroidery u'ith her). 
Yes, mother. 

{Exit lower door R.) 

Sir Everard {to Felix). Excuse me for interrupt- 
ing you. • X AT • 
Miss Chilworth {to Felix ivith curiosity). You 

were saying ? 

Felix. I was about to say that that passage 
where the courtesan goes down on her knees and 
prays, has true religious feeling. 

Miss Chilworth {disappointed). Ah, yes. ■ ^ 

Sir Everard {looking at his watch) . If you're going 
up to, rest, Mary, you've not got much time. 

Lady Chilworth {rising). Very well ! (Z)fo/)s 
work— -to Felix who has picked up her work-bag, 
for her.) Thank you. Dinner is at eight. YouTI 
hear the dressing bell at seven thirty. {Going.) 
Are you coming, Agatha ? 

Miss Chilw^orth irises). Oh, if you wish it. 
{Looks at Felix and smiles.) ■ ' , 

{Then exits lower door r. following L.\dy Chilworth.) 

Sir Everard (with a sigh of relief). Ah 1 Now 
the women and children have gone we can' talk. 
Another cigarette ? , . . 

Felix. No, thanks. ' , ' ' 

Sir Everard. Well, what do you think of my 
boy, Pascoe ? 

Pascoe. Cecil ? 

Sir Everard. No, no, Everard. 

Pascoe. He's grown quite a' man since I last 
saw him. / . ' 



34 THE SON AND HEIR. 

Sir Everard. We shall be askiug you to his 
wedding one of these days. 

Pascoe. Already ? 

Sir Everard. As soon as he's left Oxford. I 
was younger than that when I married. A man 
ought to marry early — keeps him out of mischief. 

Felix {crosses l. of settee by fire, is examining picture 
over mantel a little disdainfully). Is this not a por- 
trait of your eldest: son ? 

Sir Everard {pleased, rises, crosses r.). You 
recognize it ? 

Felix. By the hunting suit. 

Sir Everard. Looks well in it, doesn't he ? And 
so he will in a uniform. 

Felix. Ah, he is to be a soldier ? {Sits on end 
of settee by fire.) 

Sir Everard. Fm arranging to send him into 
the cavalry for a few years. 

Felix. And the younger son ? Also in the army ? 

Sir Everard. No, no, he must work. I shall 
turn him into an engineer. He's got to make his 
way in the world. 

Felix. Ah yes, he has to make his way while his 
brother's way is ready made. This is one of the old 
curiosities of England — this favouritism of the eldest 
son. What a law ! 

Sir Everard. It isn't a law — it's a matter of 
custom and common sense, with, if I may say so, a 
spice of religious feeling. 

Felix {interested) . IIow so ? 

Sir Everard. Well, take the case of a modest 
country squire like myself. I never grudge the time 
or trouble I take because every tree I plant, every 
road I make will some day make things easier for my 
heir. {With great conviction.) I believe that in the 
eyes of Providence I'm only a steward for my son. 
He, in his turn, will be a steward for his. We hold 
the estate in trust for one another. 

Felix {enlightened, rises, turns to Pascoe and then 



THE SON AND HEIR. SST 

^0 Sir Everard), Ah! It is a trust. But they are 
busting them all, these trusts, standard oils and steel 
trades. When will the Eldest-son-trust go 

Sir Everard. Never, I hope. (Warmly.) For 
it's one of the things that has made England. What 
would become of our great families, of our beautiful 
homes without it ? If a man leaves his estate to 
his eldest son, the family name and prestige are main- 
tained. But once let him divide his property among 
a parcel of boys and girls, and the old home gets 
sold up to a brewer or an American, and the family's 
gone to destruction. 

Felix (c). To leave all to the eldest son is " good 
business." 

Pascoe [sits on arm of settee). But a little hard 
on younger sons. 

Felix. And daughters. 

(Warn motor horn.) 

Sir Everard. Not at all ! They're glad to sacri- 
fice themselves — at least, they ought to be. 

Felix. Ah, in France we have found the solution 
to all these family difficulties 

Sir Everard. What's that ? 

Felix. Do not have any family. (Sits chair 
R. of table c.) 

(Enter Cecil door r.u.) 

Cecil (comes c). Mr. Coggins has seen the mare, 
father, and says now can you see him. 

Sir Everard. Good ! I'll see him at once. 
(Going.) Make yourselves at home, you two. Cecil, 
go up stairs. 

(Exit door R.u.) 

Felix (shivering). Brrr ! By Jove, it is cold. 

(Rises : he goes up to ivindow and closes it.) 



36. THE SOX AND HEIR. 

Pascoe (to Cecil who is coming down with a deter- . 
mined air and going R.). Where are you off to ? 

Cecil (c). I suppose it's to get a whacking. 

Eascoe. (c). What ? 

Cecil. It alv/ays means that when father says 
I'm to be in his study at seven. {Rather proudly.) 
I knew I should get a whacking if I answered back. 

pASCOO. Then why did you ? 

Cecil. Sometimes you want so much to do a thing 
you know you'll jolly well get punished for, that it's 
worth getting punished just to jolly well do it 

Pascoe. Cecil, you've enunciated such a great 
truth that I must . reward you. {Slips a sovereign 
into the boy's hand.) 

{Motor horn.) 

Cecil. I sayj Pascoe, you are a brick. [ was 
down to keys. 

{He 'runs out r. lower door.) 

{Outside a motor with lamps lit is seen to pass from 
R. to L. on its way to stop at the front door.) 

Felix {up at windo-w). Look, Pascoe, look ! A 
motor is coming. 

Pascoe. That must be Mrs. Wishaw. 

{In a second Tix^ider comes in by door R.u. and crosses 
to vestibule.) 

Felix {coming down c.) . Ah , t he married daughter . 
Is she good-looking ? 

Pascoe {gruffly). How should I know ? {Crosses 
L.). You'll see for yourself. 

Felix. Ah ! Either you are ashamed to say hov^^ 
plain she is or you admire her too much for words. 

(TiDDER opens front door. Enter Beatrice Chil- 
WORTH Wishav/, through the vestibule and into the 
hall. She is a beautiful ivoman of twenty-eight, 
with charming, a?td graceful manners. She is richly 



THE 80N AND HEIR. SY 

go'wned and as she stands in the door, wrapped in a 
long fur coat, and throws hack- the veil from her 
coquettish motor bonnet, she strikes a rpote of modern 
refinement and complexity. She comes down L.) 

Pascoe {meeting her). Beatrice ! 

Beatricp:. Pascoe ! Dear old Pascoe ! {Giving 
him both her hands.) Fancy you being here ! ' 

Pascoe {banter ingly). I must have had an in- 
tuition that you were coming. 

Felix {cross l. coughing for an introduction) . H um ! 
Hum! 

Pascoe {not letting go of Beatrice's hands). Let 
me introduce a friend of mine. Fejix Fouric, Mrs. 
Wishaw. 

Beatrice {bowing). How do you do ? 

Felix. Very fit, thank you kindly. 

Beatrice (laughingly). Let go of my hands, 
Pascoe, I want to get out of this heavy coat. 

Pascoe {relinquishing her hands). Do you ? 

Felix {rushing at her). Permit me ! {Waving 
Pascoe aside he helps Beatrice off ivith her coat.) 

(Tidder ivho has taken a hand bag from the motpr 
and closed the front door now comes doimt vestibule 
and into hall.) 

Beatrice {down l. front, free of the coat, with a 
little sigh of relief.) Ah, that's better.'' {To Felix, 
pulling off her gloves.) Thank you. 

Felix. The pleasure was thoroughlymine. {Tri- 

'umphant at having assisted her, he folds the coat nicely 
and tu^ns to give it to Tidder up l.c.)' " 

{When Felix's back is safely turned, Beatrice swiftly 
puts her fingers to Pascoe' s lips in a caressing, 
longing gesture. He snatches them greedily and 
kisses them. As Felix starts to turn around she 
draws her hand away. Felix joins- them serenely 
unaware of their secret unde^' standing.) 



38 THE SON AND HEIR. 

Pascoe {to Beatrice, in a natural, banter ing tone 
for Felix's benefit). Don't you find it very warm in 
here ? 

Beatrice {seriously). Very. 

Pascoe {with a malicious glance at Felix, leaning 
over back of settee l.c). Shall I open the window? 

Beatrice. No — I'll keep away from the fire. 
{Sits on settee L.c. front.) 

TiDDER {crossing to her). Does Fulcott come by 
train, ma'am ? 

Beatrice. No. I left her at home, Tidder. As 
I'm leaving here to-morrow morning, I thought I 
could do without her. (Giving him key). Ask Dor- 
man if she'll unpack for me. 

Tidder. Dorman will be only too honoured, 
ma'am. It's a great pleasure to see you back here, 
ma'am. {Going up.) 

Beatrice. Thank you, Tidder. 

Pascoe. That's what you said to me, Tidder. 

Tidder {going; from I'i'indow). And meant it, 
sir. Pleased to see you both — both. 

Pascoe. Thank you, Tidder. 

{Exit Tidder door r.u.) 

Beatrice {looking round). How little it ever 
seems to change here. I know mother's gone up- 
stairs to rest. And father and Everard have just 
come in from hunting ? But where's Amy ? 

Pascoe. Why a novel of mine was mentioned and 
she was suddenly sent on an errand. 

(Felix crosses to fire) 

Beatrice. Delightful! To think that you're 
the famous author of books Amy mustn't read. Why, 
if I close my eyes I'm a schoolgirl again. And 
you're a gawky boy spending your holidays with 
us. Ah, me ! 

{She opens her eyes with a sigh to find that Sir Everard 



THE SON AND HEIR. 39 

has come in door r.u. Rising, oddly subdued by 
the presence of her father.) 

Father! • 

Sir Everard {crossing to her). How are you, Bea- 
trice ? 

Beatrice. Well, father. 

(He gives her a perfunctory kiss on the forehead.) 
And you ? 

Sir Everard. Quite well. How's Lionel ? 

Beatrice (sitting again). I hardly know. 

Sir Everard. What do you mean ? 

Beatrice. A member's wife scarcely sees him 
when the House is sitting, you know. {Sits settee.) 

Sir Everard. Ah yes. Of course. Well, re- 
member me to him and say I thought that cari- 
cature of him in Vanity Fair an excellent likeness. 
{Crosses to r.) 

Beatrice {smiling, hut a little piqued). But 
father, Fm not leaving yet. Fve just come. 

Sir Everard {absent-mindedly). Your mother'll 
be very pleased to see you. And Amy. {Comes c.) 

Beatrice. How are they ? 

Sir Everard. Oh, all right, I suppose. Much the 
same as usual. 

Beatrice {watching for the effect she knows her words 
will have). And how is Everard, father ? 

Sir Everard {with animation). Oh, Everard, 
poor boy ! He's had a bad shock, Beatrice. His new 
mare — the beauty I bought him at Tattersall's — • 
he may not be able to ride her for months. 

Beatrice {almost pityingly). Ah yes, that would 
be a great shock to Everard. 

Sir Everard. He was inconsolable until I pro- 
mised him another.' I shall have to mount him my- 
self to-morrow. 

{A gong sounds.) 

Beatrice. The dressing-bell ? Already ? {Ris- 
ing.) Do you know where they've put me ? 



40 THE SON AND HEIR. 

Sir Everard. Where were you last time ? 

Beatrice. In the State Rooms. But Lionel was 
with me them. * 

Sir Everard. Oh, if you were given the State 
Rooms last time j^ou're sure to be having them again. 
(Going, looks at watch.) Excuse me. Cecil's waiting 
for me in the study. 

{Exit r.) 

Beatrice {looks round). What's Cecil been doing ? 

Pascoe. Answering back. 

Beatrice {gathering up her things to go). Poor boy ! 
{Crosses r.) 

Pascoe {putting his hand or her arm) . Don't worry. 
He doesn't. 

Felix {intercepting Beatrice). Pardon me. Your 
father mentioned the " State Rooms." Whose state ? 

Beatrice. Oh, they're only the rooms that have 
been prepared for Royalty whenever they honour 
" Ledgers " with a visit — about once every other 
century. {Goes r.) 

Felix. Oh, for Royalty. Then no wonder they 
give those room's to you, my dear Mrs. Wishaw. 

Beatrice {on step). Pascoe, I do like Frenchmen. 

{Exit R. lower door.) 

¥elix {looking after her appreciaiivcly). Slie is A.I. 
{Faces Pascoe.) 

Pascoe {coldly). Really ? 

Felix. What is the husband like ? {Crosses L.) 

Pascoe. Like a Member of Parliament. {Crosses 

Felix. Old? 

Pascoe. Middle-aged. 

Felix. Has she any lovers ? 

Pascoe {furious, crosses to Felix). When you 
ask me damned impertinent questions like that, Felix, 
I want to punch your head. 



THE SON AND HEIR. 41 

Felix. Oh ! Oh ! Gently ! If a lovely young 
woman is married to a middle-aged man who is always 
sitting in Parliament, surely it is a natural question 
to ask ? 

Pascoe. Not in this country. 

Felix. Oh ! As if 

Pascoe. Well, not of me — about Beatrice Wishaw.. 
She's one of my oldest friends. How the devil should 
I know whether she loves her husband or^ not ? 
(Cross to fireplace.) 

Felix (crosses to Pascoe). There ! There ! I 
apologise a thousand times. I was seeking a little 
excitement in the life. The only emotion I have seen 
these people show is for a horse. Here is a husband 
and wife, a daughter married to a Member of Parlia- 
ment, and all satisfied and true to each other. You' 
must admit that it is discouraging for' a writer. 

Pascoe. Possibly: 

Felix (by chair r. of table). Ah, no wonder the 
word " bluff " was invented in England. Your' 
velvety green lawns are always too wet to stand on, 
your tempting apples are never ripe enough to eat, 
your beautiful women are cold. 

Pascoe. How do you know that the coldness 
isn't a " bluff " as well ? 

Felix. What ? Are they like their rooms — ^very 
chilly on one side and very warm on the other ? 

Pascoe. I won't admit that but I deny that they're 
cold. 

Felix. But I do not see 

Pascoe. What does the outsider ever see from 
the] social side of hfe ? (Comes to him.) A' group of 
people round a tea-table in a drawing-room, passing 
bread and butter and concealing their thoughts. 
And all the time what's going on in each separate room 
of the house, in each separate beating lieart in the 
house ? 

Felix. What ? What ? 

Pascoe. Ah ! That's what you can never know. 



42 THE SON AND HEIR. 

Unless/ like Asmodeous, you take the roofs off the 
houses and look in. 

Felix. No, no, I will not take the roofs off ! The 
Enghsh would not notice it, but I should feel the 
draught. 

Pascoe. Then you'll have to take my word for 
us. {Heatedly.) And I solmenly declare that we 
are the most hot-blooded, warm-hearted, muddle- 
headed people in existence, capable of more generous 
quixotic, reckless impulses than any other nation 
whatsoever. We're the sentimentalists of the world. 
We're 'fools, we're babies, we're lover's, we're saints 
and martyrs — we're everything that's beautiful, and 
nothing that's wise. 

Felix. Eh ! What exultation ! What has gone 
to your head ? The eyes of the pretty lady, eh, 
what ? 

Pascoe {slapping him on the shoulder). Pretty 
lady nothing, you French fool. Come and dress ! 
I'm hungry and I heard the dinner bell ! 

(They go off lower door r.) 
Curtain 



ACT n 

Scene. — The Schoolroom. 

Although no longer used as a schoolroom, this room 
has scarcely been changed since Beatrice and 
EvERARD were children. At hack a long, practical 
bookcase holds, behind a brass netting, a motley 

■ array of school and reference books. On top of the 
bookcase a globe, a microscope and a plaster bust 
of Julius Cc^sar. On the R. a curved step leads up 
to a cupboard which runs the whole length of the wall. 
Above cupboard a boimd casement imndow, which is 
leaded. On the top of the cupboard which serves 

■ as a ledge to window, a miscellaneous row of chiidisb 
objects, a golly-wog, wild flowers in a jam jar, a 
black cat, a china savings bank, a ship, etc^ On 
the L. a fireplace, with a door either side. Upper 
door L. leads to the hall, lower door L. to Cecil s bed- 
room. There is a club fender at fireplace, a cheery 
fire is burning. Down the centre of room is set a 
narrow schoolroom table with a linoleum cloth. A 
miscellanous pile of books belonging to Brock on 
the upper end of the table, and on the lower end the 
remains of a dinner, which has been brought to Cecil 
on a tray. A small leather armchair up l. by fire- 
place. In the R. comer r. of bookcase, a child s 
high-chair. The table chairs are scattered about. 
The walls are light, woodwork white : matting on the 
floor with a centre square of red carpet. R^ and i.. 
of bookcase are pictures of animals. Above the 
mantelpiece a coloured print of a little girl and a 
fox terrier. There are no curtains to the window ; 



43 



44 THE SON AND HEIR. 

it is bright moonlight outside. The room is lit by 
a centre light ; switch by upper i.. Both doors open 
in to the room. 

{At rise Cecil is discovered sitting on lower corner 
of table, finishing a boat which he has geen carving 
out of wood, and whistling cheerfully as the shavings 
fall on the carpet. Well satisfied he puts boat on 
mantelpiece and takes from there some chestnuts, 
which he brings c. counting them affectionately. 
Enter Dorman upper door l»-. stealthily, with her 
apron over something she carries.) 

Dorman {breathless). Here I am, Master Ceeil. 

Cecil. You were an age. {With a glance at the tray.) 
I finished the rest hours ago. 

Dorman. Cook thought the custcird ought to 
have been enough for you. {Crosses' above table 
to R. of it. Whisking her apron away and revealing 
a large blancmange.) They hadn't touched this 
in the dining-room. They never do when there's 
trifle. Even clergymen. But as I said to Cook, 
when a young gentleman has been caned by his 
Pa he can do with two desserts. [Sets plate on table.) 

Cecil {taking a chair to lower r. end of table). Was 
there any trifle left ? I doii't care much for this. 
It goes down too quick. 

Dorman. No, Master Cecil {crosses to look at 
clock on mantelpiece), and I'm waiting to clear your 
dishes. It's ten o'clock, an'd the drawing-room's 
broke up {seeing the shavings on the floor), tsh ! Tsh ! 

Cecil {slowly and systematically attacking blanc- 
mange). Have they gone to bed already ? 

Dorman {getting hearth broom and shovel from 
fireplace). William's just takenan the barley water. 
They never stay long after that. 

Cecil. William's a silly footman, he won't pass 
dishes three times. 

Dorman {sweeping up the shavings --trying to pump 



THK 8C)N AND HEIR. 45 

him). It must be hard on a young gentleman who 
eats well not to be let in to table. 

Cecil {ivith bravado). Oh, that's all right. It's 
rather jolly missing dinner as long as you don't 
miss the feed. 

DoKMAN. Your brother nows he never was one to 
get punished. But then, as my old father used to 
say, " the hair's the hair." {Putting shavings into 
fire.) 

Cecil, f tell you wluit.Dorman, one of these days 
I shall give up being a second son. [Puts chestmits- 
on cupboard at k(^ck.) 

DoRMAN {piling the dishes neatly on tray). How'll 
you do that. Master Cecil ? 

Cecil {mysteriously). You'll see. It's not that I 
mind Everard having the best of everything — w^hat 
I can't bear is Father always taking his side against 
me. 

DoRMAN {puis /?/'g tip at back on bookcase). What 
are you going to do about it. Master Cecil ? 

Cecil. I shall cut it. 

Dorm AN. Where to ? 

Cecil. Oh, to sea of course. Then they'll all 
be jolly sorry they didn't appreciate me. 

DoRMAN (taking his napkin from him and folding it). 
I shouldn't try that on with a firm gentleman like 
your Pa. 

Cecil {so interested '.he stops eating). What could 
Father do if I was gone ? 

Dormrn. He'd sec the police on you. 

Cecil {a little 'wcaJzened but sliaking his head). 
But they wouldn't know me. 

DoRMAN (triumphamtly),.. Yes,, they would. They'd 
have your photograph marconied to all the papers. 

Cecil {bitterly). Would they? What a sell 
electricity is ! 



P 

Lady 
C 



46 THE SON AND HEIR. 

{Enter Lady Chilworth upper door l. She is in 
evening dress. Cecil rises, pushes blancmange l.) 

'DoRMh.'^ [surprised). Oh! {Bustling.) I just came 
in to see to Master Cecil, your ladyship, as William 
was 

Lady Chilworth {cutting her short). I shall want 
you presently Dorman, to unhook me. 

DoRMAN {going). Thank you, your ladyship. 
{Crosses above L.c.) 

{Exit upper door l.) 

Lady Chilworth {shyly). Are — are you all right, 
Cecil? 

Cecil {scenting sympathy and resenting it, stolidly). 
Yes, mother. 

Lady Chilworth. Have you had all you want to 
eat ? 

Cecil {with a sidelong glance at the interrupted 
blancmange). Yes, mother. 

Lady Chilworth {longing to be affectionate with him 
and not daring). Lm sorry your father had to punish 
you. I — I hope he wasn't very severe ? 

Cecil. No, mother. 

Lady Chilworth {exasperated). Oh ! Can't you 
say something besides " Yes, mother, no, mother ? " 

Cecil {astonished). Yes, mother. 

{Enter Sir Everard upper door l., smoking cigar .) 

Sir Everard. What are you doing here, Mary ? 

Lady Chilworth. Ij^was only making sure Cecil 
had been seen to. {Hopefully ; with a little movement 
to him.) Is that what you came for ? 

Sir Everard. No. I have to speak to Brock 
about Everard. 

Cecil. He's not come up yet. 

Sir Everard. Lll wait for him. Time you were 
in bed, Cecil. 

Cecil. Good night, father. 



THE SON AND HEIR. 47 

Sir Everard Good night, my boy. {Knocks 
ash into fire.) 

Cecil. Good night, mother. 

(Lady Chilworth kisses him.) 

(As Cecil goes, he unostentatiously gets hold of the 
plate of blancmange and carries it off with him. 
Exit lower door l.) 

Sir Everard. Is the day that I've had to punish 
Cecil for impertinence quite the most fitting time 
for you to be making a fuss of the lad, Mary ? 

Lady Chilworth {bitterly). I wasn't aware that 
anything I did was important enough to interfere 
with your discipline. 

Sir JLyerard {surprised at her tone). I must main- 
tain my authority, you understand. 

Lady Chilworth. Oh, I understand. 

Sir Everard. How oddly you speak. 

Lady Chilworth {repenting her rashness). Do I ? 

Sir Everard. What's wrong ? Aren't 3^ou well ? 

Lady Chilworth {going tip by r. of armchair. 
Eager to escape). Quite well, thanks. 

Sir Everard {goes up l. of armchair, faces her. 
Interposing her). Then what's "ihe matter with you? 

Lady Chilworth {trying to speak lightly). Why, 
nothing {goes down, fingers edges of table), Everard, 
nothing. 

Sir Everard {obstinately). Yes, here is. {Goes 
to her.) Have I done anything to upset you ? ' 

Lady Chilworth {more and more nervous. Comes 
down to fire). No, no, of course not. We always 
get on very nicely, don't we ? 

Sir Everard. You've some grievance. 

Lady Chilworth {on the verge of tears. Looking 
into fire). It's only that I suddenly feel so overlooked 
— so lonely — you're always shutting me out — you 
take so little notice of me. 



m THE SOX AND HEIR. 

Sir Everard. Overlooked ? How do you mean ? 
Notice of you ! [Puzzled.) I never pay attention to 
other women. 

'• Lady Chilworth. No, no, never. [Choking back 
her tears.) I knew you'd think I was absurd. 

Sir Everard (patiently). Not at all. I'd like 
to understand. What started you in this strain ? 

Lady Chilworth [sits armchair). It must have 
been something that Monsieur Fourie said. French- 
men seem to think a lot about a woman's feelings. 

Sir Everard [down a little. Drily). Yes, they 
think too much of 'em. 

Lady Chilworth [ie;ith a flasli of resentment). 
Perhaps that's better than thinking too little. Per- 
-haps that's better than letting a woman realize she 
doesn't matter any more. 

'• Sir Everard. Matter ? [Proudly.) You're my 
wife ! What more could you be to me ? 
• Lady Chilworth [softly). There was a differ- 
ence once — when the girls w^re little — before the 
boys were born — you spoke to me differently then — 
you looked at me differently — 

Sir Everard [taken dhack). If you mean you'd 
like me to talk sentimental twaddle to you — Come, 
come, Mary, we've outgrown that sort of thing. 
'' Lady Chilworth [wincing). Am I such an old 
woman ? 

Sir Everard. Of course not. But [as an un- 
answerable argument) your children are grown up ! 
I can't pay you compliments and fetch and carry as 
perhaps I did then. That sort of thing goes with 
the mating season. 

Lady Chilworth. I wonder if the thrushes are 
ashamed of their songs once the nest is full. [Rises.) 
Probably. [Goes to fire.) I suppose you're right. 

Sir Everard. Of course I am. Your nerves are 
a little out of order, my dear. Why not take Amy 
and run down to Brighton for a few days ? 

Lady Chilworth. I'm tired of Brighton. 



THE SON AND HEIR. 4^ 

Sir P:verard. It'll brace you up and I'll join 
vou for the week-end. 

Lady Chilworth. If you wish it. {Going.) 

Sir Everard {kindly). You mustn t have a 
breakdown, you know. What should we do with- 
out you at " Ledgers ? " 

Lady Chilworth {pausing up l.) Oh, your, 
sister could take my place as head of your house 
She covets it already. {By upper door l.) 

Sir Everard {annoyed). Agatha s a meddle- 
some fool. I'd never have her here at all if it wasn t 

"^LADY^CHiLWORTii. Are all " old" women in the 

^¥iR Everard. No. Not when they've children, 
as you have, and can live on in them. 

Lady Chilworth. Live on m my ^;hildren ^ 
{Shaking herhead). They won t let me. What_do I 
know of their liopL'S and fears and longmgs ? . They 
never tell me anything. 

Sir Everard {strangely surprised; up a litue). 
Do you mean to say your children hide thmgs from 
vou? That seems very strange. 

Lady Chilworth {goes to him). My children 
are afraid of me because they bracket me with you 
Thev daren't tell mother anything for fear shell 
" tell father." So it's really less strange than you 
think. {Pause.) 

{Enter E\erard upper door l.) 

Everard. Hello , Wlater 1 

(Lady Chilworth crosses below him in silence.) 

Why are vou oft in such a hurry ? , , • 

Lady Chilworth {stops l. of hini).^ I m being 
shut out once again, Everard, that's all. 

{Exit upper door L., she shuts door l.). 

d 



50 THE SON AND HEIR. 

EvERARD {opening his eyes, to his father). What's 
wrong with her ? 

Sir Everard. Nothing at all. {Planting himself 
in front of fireplace.) It's just one of those moods 
women always have whenever a man's got something 
else to worry him. {Comes down L. of table c.) 

Everard. What's worrying you ? {Comes doz£jn to 
fire and sits club fender.) 

Sir Everard. Brock says he won't be responsi- 
ble if you fail in mods, again ! 

Everard. I thought he'd been making mischief, 
that's why I followed you up. Brock indeed ! It's 
about time we got rid of him. 

Sir Everard. I have no intention of getting rid 
of your coach simply because you're slack, Everard., 

{Enter William up l.) 

William {at door, seeing Sir Evi^^^ard). Oh, I 
beg pardon, I came for the tray. 

Sir Everard. Take it — take it. {Crosses and 
sits chair L. of table.) 

Everard {after a pause). William, tell Mr. 
Brock that Sir Everard and I are waiting in the school- 
room to speak to him. 

William. Very good, sir. {Going with tray.) 

Everard. You will find him in the billiard room. 

{Exit William upper door l.) 

{Sits on club fender). Makes himself free of the 
house, does the tutor. 

Sir Everard {surprised). What Juive you to 
say to Brock ? 

■ Everard. I would rather tell him before you, 
father. 

Sir Everard. Very well {To chair.) But play 
fair, my boy. It's not Brock's fault if you are lazy 
and your father's too indulgent. 

Everard {rises). That's what he says, is it ? 
Well, he won't be here long. 



THE SON AND HEIR. 51 

SirEverard (angry). Once for and all, Everard, 
I shall not dismiss Brock. You must buckle to. If 
you're sent down next time, Heaven knows when I can 
get you in the Cavalry. 

Everard. Does it matter much ? 

Sir Everard. Matter ? We've all been in the 
army for generations ? 

Everard {crosses below him lo below table c. bored). 
Yes, I know. 

Sir Everard {rises). Besides, old Hazleton 
won't have your engagement to Alice announced 
until you've left College. 

Everard. Oh, Alice'll bring him round. It's 
quite the thing now not to get your degree. None of 
the nuts do. 

Sir Everard {going to him, putting both hands on 
his shoulders ; speaking with intense affection). I 
sometimes wonder if you realize all the hopes ^that 
are centred in you. Ever since you were born I've 
looked forward to seeing you a man, ready to take 
my place in the country. It's for this that I've 
planned and contrived all these years, denied myself, 
stinted your mother and sisters. And now you seem 
so heedless of it all — careless, extravagant 

Everard {shifting Hmeasily) . It's all very well 
to talk about bein' extravagant, father, but people 
know I'm the eldest son. They expect things of me. 

Sir Everard. So do I, Everard. I expect a fine 
record, a good name. {Clapping him on the shoulders, 
moved). Don't disappoint me. 

{Enter Brock upper door l. Sir Everard intsantly 
severe, leaves Everard and resumes his place in 
front of the fire.) 

Brock {coming in, anxiously). Have I kept 
you waiting ? You wish to speak to me. Sir Everard ? 

Sir Everard {on fender). Sit down, Brock. 
Everard seems to have something to say to you. 

Everard {standing centre— ^folding his arms tri- 



o2 THE SON ANDEh IR- 

umphanily). , I tiiink it's time you told my father what 
you mean by making love to my sister Amy 



Brock {sprmging lip) . What! \ I, ^ 

SirEverard {incredulously). Amy! |* |' ^^\ 



E 



EvERARD. {to Brock). You didn't think I saw 
you kissing her that time I came so suddenly into 
the arbour or that I ever noticed the little three- 
cornered notes you slipped under the door. I may 
be a duffer at (keek, Brock, but I'm not such a fool at 
that language. 

Sir Everard (f^'smg utterly amazed — to Everard). 
Why didn't you tell me this before, Everard ? 
' Brock. He was saving it for when it would prove 
most useful. 

Everard. Yoii see, he can't even deny it. 

Brock. No, I '.don't deny that I love your sister. 

Sir Everard (/o Brock). This is a matter you 
and I must discuss alone, Brock. Leave us, Everard. 

Everard. But, father 

Sir Everard. Leave us. 

Everard. Oh, very well. (Going.) I was goin' 
down to the stables anyway. 

Sir Everard. I'll join you there. 

Everard (turning at door). Oh, by the way, 
Brock, I'm huntin' to-morrow. T shan't be requiring 
a lesson from you. 

(Exit upper door l.) 

Sir Everard [as if he could annihilate him). How 
long has this been going on ? 

Brock (meeting his gaze unjlinchingly). I have 
been in love with your daughter for two years. 

SirEverard. When did you tell her? 

Brock. Aboiita year ago. 
■ Sir Everard {incredulous. Goes to him a little.) 
Then Aniy has deliberately kept this from me all 
this time. 

Brock. She loves me. 



THE SON AND HEIR. 53 

Sir Everard {crosses to him). You leave this 
house to-morrow morning, d'you hear? , 

Brock. Yes. 

Sir Everard. And I absolutely forbid you to hold 
any eommunication with her in the future. 
Brock. I hear what you say. 
Sir Everard {raises his voice). I warn you that. I 
shall do my utmost to keep you apart. 

Brock {looking straight ahead , of him). I have 
doubt of that. 

Sir Everard. You were in a position of trust 
in this house and you've grossly .abused it. i 

Brock {impatiently. Crosses to R. of table c). 
You can't reproach me any more than I've reproached 
myself. „ :• 

Sir Everard {slightly mollified).. Then why ;.the 
devil didn't you do the right thing ? Did you ima- 
gine I should let her marry a man in your position ? 
Brock. No ! 

Sir Everard. No! Yet you didn't scruple, to 
make love to her ? 

Brock {to himself). There may l)e between a 
man and a woman a feeling so deep, so true to nature, 
that not to confess it is to rob; thq being you, love. 
Sir Everard. Stuff and nonsense ! Any man 
who makes love to a young girl he knows he can't 
marry is a damned scoundrel. 
Brock. Have you finished ? . 
Sir Everard. No. Your romantic excuses could 
only impose on a woman, Brock. Tsh, ! You're not 
the first ambitious youth who's tri^d. to get into a 
family by working on the vanity of an inexperienced 
girl ! . ' 

Brock {furiously) . You have .no right to say that ! 
Sir Everard, You had no right to make love to 
my daughter. 

Brock. I've not taken advantage of hermexperi- 
ence in any wav. 
Sir Everard.'' For all that you'll leave my house 



54 THE SON AND HEIR. 

to-morrow. {Crosses up r. of armchair toward door 
up stage.) 

Brock. I will' indeed. 

Sir Everard {hy door up l.). You need not leave 
until the ten forty five. 

Brock. Don't be afraid, Sir Edward, I shan't 
make any fuss. 

Sir Everard {going). As for Amy, I shall pack 
her off somewhere where you won't be able to get at 
her — so spare yourself any useless attempts. 

{Exit upper door L.) 

(Brock sinks on table and sits thinking — his head in 
his hands. Lower door l. opens and Cecil sticks 
his head in. He is now in pyjamas.) 

Cecil. Has father gone ? 

Brock {startled). Yes. 

Cecil {coming in). I say, has there been a dust- 
up ? 

Brock. Oh, nothing much. But I find I've got 
to leave " Ledgers " to-morrow. 

Cecil. What luck for you. {Looking round.) 
Where are my chestnuts ? You haven't eaten them ? 

Brock. No. 

Cecil. They're not so good raw. {Finding the 
chestnuts on ledge of bookcase.) Ah ! 

{He kneels in front of fire and puts the chestnuts to 
roast. Simultaneously enter Pascoe upper door 

L.) 

Pascoe. May I come in ? Felix and T had a 
splendid game. 

Brock {absent-mindedly). Did you ? 
Pascoe. A perfect game ! I beat him. 

(Brock silent.) 

I say, old man, did you ask me in for a smoke ? 
Brock {rises, rousing himself). Of course. {Crosses 



THE SON AND HEIR. 55 

helow table, goes up r. of il.) I'll get 1115^ pip^\ {Goes 
up and gets pipe and tobacco from cupboard.) 

Pascoe {by fireplace, to Cecil). Chestnuts ! I 
adore them ! 

Cecil {cautiously). They're not nearly ready to 
eat yet. 

Pascoe. Then suppose you come back tor them 
presently. 

Cecil {rises, crosses to door down l. stops by door). 
You won't touch them ? 

Pascoe {comes down). Cross my heart. 

(Cecil does so. Exit Cecil lower door l.) 
{Sits in armchair). So this is your sanctum now. 
What tea-parties Bee and I used to have- here ! I 
can still see the glorious golden slabs of bread and 
butter and smell the perfume of the raspberry jam. 

Brock (cleaning his pipe). What you smell is 
probably Cecil's dinner. 

Pascoe. No, no, it's an aroma from the past, 
for with it I hear the melodious crackle of starched 
pinafores. 

Brock. You heard me cleaning my pipe. 

Pascoe. You can't disillusionize me. 

Brock. Lucky dog ! {Offers him tobacco.) 

Pascoe. No thanks. {Sitting in armchair.) Brock, 
there's something I particularly want to talk to you 
about. 

Brock. Nothing improving, I hope. {Loading 
his pipe.) I'm horribly depressed to-night. 

Pascoe {taking a cigarette from his own case). Poor 
old chap, you're in very deep. 

Brock. In what ? 

Pascoe. In love. 

Brock {with a nervous laugh). This comes of 
having a novelist for a friend ! {Crosses below him 
to fire.) You're like the Post-Impressionists, Tan- 
dridge, you see the primary colours everywhere. 
(Pascoe lights his cigarette. Brock lights pipe, 
matches on mantlepiece.) 



66 THE SON AND HEIR. 

PASCOE. Well, and once you blow away a little 
British fog, aren't the primar}/ colours always there ? 

Brock. What right have I to be in " love." 
" Classics " at St. Giles, Eastbourne, £90 a year and 
board, must be a bachelor. {Abruptly. ) What was 
it you wanted to talk to me about ? 

PasCoe. That very thing. How is it that with 
all your scholarship and imagination and steadiness 
you're not doing better ? 

Brock. I shall in time. 

Pascoe. Ever had a decent chance in the Colonies ? 

Brock. Yes — on the West Coast. 

Pascoe. Afraid of the climate ? 

Brock. If that had been all ? 

Pascoe. 1 see. She lives in England ! 

Brock. It's a blind alley, Pascoe. They won't 
let me have her, and I can't take her by force into 
a life like mine, to face all this uncertainty. [Spring- 
ing up step to Pascoe.) What a fool a man is to care 
for a young girl until he's got on. {Walks to above 
table up R.) The better and finer the love, the more 
it's out of his reach. God ! What wouldn't I give 
to be able to stop feeling ! {Pausing up k.) This 
constant struggle for self-control — that keeps one 
on the rack — do you know^ — you'll laugh at me, but I 
mean it — I sometimes long to be an old, old man — 
to have done with it all — just to sit in the sun and 
look on — to be beyond this torment — to live without 
feeling — what blessed freedom ! {Turns to the win- 
dow.) 

Pascoe. But what wouldn't the old old man who 
sits in the sun give to be young again and to suffer ? 
(Rising and going to him.) The outlook is not as black 
as you think, Block. 

(Brock about to protest.) 

All you're suffering from is a dearth of uncles. 
' Brock {puzzled). Uncles ? 
Pascoe {taking him by the arm and bringing him 



THE SON AND HEIR. '57 

down R.C.). Precisely. {Pushes Brock into chair.) 
No man can get on in England without Uncles. If 
they like him they push him, if they dislike him they 
get him comfortable billets in the Colonies. 

Brock. Are you proposing to hnd me a foster-* 
uncle ? 

Pascoe. I have my eye on an influential man 
who's never bothered to use his influence beforev 
{Sits on R. edge of table.) When that type of unclq 
asks a favour people are so surprised they grant it. 
Now Sir Everard has a connexion on the governing 
board of the British Museum. 

Brock {taken aback). Sir Everard? 

Pascoe. They're sending another exploring ex- 
pedition to Egypt soon — a fine opening^with a 
screw to marry on ! I believe I can get Sir Everard 
to put in one word that will just- 

Brock {rises). No, no, you mustn't ask Sir Ever- 
ard to help me. I forbid it, Tandridge, I positively 
forbid it. 

Pascoe {surprised). So it's Amy you're in love 
with. I j 

Brock. Yes b. p. | ! 

Pascoe. Amy Chilworth ! {Rises.) Then it is 
worse than I thought. 

Brock. You see ! 

Pascoe. But don't give her up, Brock, whatever 
you do don't give her up ! For her sake ! 

Brock. How do you mean ? 

Pascoe. A few years ago. Brock, I loved a girl 
like Amy and she loved me. But my people had 
lost their money, I was tioing hack journalistic work, 
the father wouldn't hear of it. He rushed her into a 
marriage with a rich man — a man notoriously the- 
slave of another woman — and the result has been 
misery. {Crosses to l.c.) Misery ! 

Brock {pauses, speaks when Pascoe has stopped 
walking. Surprised). So it was Beatrice Wishaw t 

Pascoe. Yes ! 



68 THE SON AND HEIR. 

Brock {^oes to him). I always wondered how 
Sir Everard came to let his daughter marry a rotter 
like Wish aw. 

Pascoe. To get her out of my reach — it was the 
lesser of two evils. And now good-night, old man. 

{They grip hands.) 

I'll think this over ; I may find means of helping you 
yet. 

Brock, thanks, old man, but 1 m afraid it's 
hopeless at present. 

Pascoe. Nothing's hopeless. 

{Exit Pascoe tipper door l.) 

(Brock knocks his pipe and puts it away, puts jar 
hack. Lower door l. opens and Beatrice puts her 
head in.) 

Beatrice. May we come in, Mr. Brock ? 

Brock {turning, surprised). Of course, Mrs. 
Wish aw ! 

Beatrice {coming in, in evening dress, crosses 
below table r.). And Miss Chilworth ! 

Amy {also in evening dress, following her in). And 
Master Chilworth ! 

(Cecil stands in loiver door l. rubbing his eyes.) 

Bee insisted on coming to kiss Cecil good-night. 

Beatrice. There was a time when I was more 
enthusiastically received. 

Cecil. Well, I offered to show you my bruises. 
(Amy goes to fire.) 

Beatrice. Ugh ! 

Brock. That's Cecil's idea of being entertaining. 

Cecil. Besides I'm too old to be kissed no\V. 
Besides it's Brock's room too. Just suppose he'd 
been in bed ! 



THK 80N AND HEIR. 



59 



Beatrice. Git, I'd have been warned. Mr. 
Brock would have screamed like a gentleman. 

Brock. I deny it, Mrs. Wishaw ! 

Cecil {suddenly remembering). Crickey ! My 
chestnuts ! 

{He flies to the fireplace and takes out the chestnuts.) 

Amy {to Brock, watching Beatrice ivho is waltzing 
about the room with golliwog from cupboard.) Bee's 
in such high spirits to-night. 

Beatrice {overhearing). I feel as if I'd never 
married or been away from home, as if life were only 
beginning. 

Brock. I understand. {Goes to her.) This was 
- your old school-room, wasn't it ? 

Beatrice {looking about, crosses up below Brock). 
I simply had to see it once again. 

Amy. Once again, Bee ? You talk as if you were 
never coming back to " Ledgers ? " 

Beatrice. Do I ? {Flinging her arms about Amy 
up L.) I'm foolish to-night, darling. Don't pay 
any attention to me. Do you remember when you 
and Everard and Pascoe and I used to hold our secret 
drum-hum here ? 

Cecil {pricking up his ears). Where was I ? 

Beatrice. You were a cherub in the nursery in 
those days. 

Brock. What is a drum-hum ? 

Beatrice. The reverse of hum-drum, of course. 

Cecil {rises with chestnuts). Let's do it now ! 

Beatrice. Yes, and eat chestnuts ! {Taking 
some from Cecil.) 

Cecil {dampened). But they're mine ! 

Beatrice. Then of course you want us to have 
some. Come, we must sit close to the fire. 

(Beatrice in upper chair by fire, Cecil kneeling on 
the hearthrug. Brock and Amy sitting side by side 
on table) • 

{Clapping her hands) The drum-hum has begun ! 



60 THE SON AND HEIR; 

And now we can say whatever we like without being 
contradicted — we can criticize our elders— we can 
tell the truth — wc can be rude — all the feelings that 
have to be swallowed during the day can pop out. 
Brock. I think a drum-hun;i is a grand institution. 
No home should be without one. You begin, Mrs. 
Wish aw. 

Beatrice. I say, aren't the evenings at home 
awful ? 

Amy. They've always been dull. 

Cecil. They're worse since father bought . a 
pianola. 

Amy. Aunt Agatha pretends she likes it. 
. Beatrice. Tm afraid she learned "How to be 
Popular " from a Girl's paper. 

Brock. Where they advice you to suit your 
conversation to the person you're with. 

Amy. She talks about God to the Vicar and he 
gets so embarrassed. 

Cecil (grinding his teeth). She calls me " darling" 
at the station. What must the railway porters 
think? 

Beatrice. Cave ! Cave ! She's in the room 
below us ! 

Cecil. I say, weren't they silly sending me out 
of the room this afternoon just because something 
naughty was going to be said ? 

Amy. They got rid of me too. 

Cecil. Oh, that's different. You're only a girl. 

^Beatrice. What were they talking about ? 

Amy. a book of Pascoe Tandridge's, " Dragon's 
Teeth." 

Brock. It's a masterpiece. 

Beatrice (proudly). Pascoe's, a genius. 

Cecil. I didn't see much in it. 

Beatrice (bends down to him). You don't mean 
to say you've read it, Cecil? 

Cecil. Of course I've read. it. Father never put 
me on my honour not to. He locked it up. 



THE SON i^ND HEIR. 01-; 

Beatrice i^ives him a tap). What's made Ever- 
ard so swanky lately ? 

Amy. He's been accepted by Alice Hazleton. 

Beatrice (surprised)^ Already ? 

Cecil. Father's kept it a secret from us. 

Brock. You mean he thinks he has. 

Amy. Since father let him be engaged, Everard 
has got above himself. He thinks it's clever now 
to be rude to iiis tutor. {Rises — passionately, goes c. 
Brock rises.) I simply liate him for it. 

Beatrice {rising, amazed). Amy ! {She comes 
down to her, leaving chestnuts on the chair.) 

(Cecil takes advantq-ge of Beatrice's hack being 
turned to eat some chestmits and stuff the rest in 
the pocket of his pyjamas.) 

Brock {warningly). Miss Chilworth doesn't quite 
mean what she says. {Goes up behind her.) 

Amy {carried away). I do ! I do ! {To Beatrice.) 
You don't know hov/ they treat him ! Day after 
day I have to watch father and Everard belittling 
and humiliaing him and sometimes it makes me so 
frantic — I^ — 

Cecil {his mouth full). I say, what's the matter with 
you. Amy ?' ; 

(Beatrice watching. Amy in alarm. Brock trying 
to stop her. Cecil's voice breaks the tension). 

Amy {coming to herself, to Cecil in a lighter tone). 
Nothing, Cecil, what's the matter with you ? {Crosses 
to fire). 

Brock {from hack of armchair). The little beggar 
— he's eaten all the chestnuts, 

Cecil {with his mouth f nil). I haven't. 

Beatrice. What? 

Cecil. Fvc otiiy" bitten them. 

Beatrice {goes to him). That's a serious breach 
of hospitalit}/. You ' must be punished. 

Cecil {i&arily; back a little). How? 



62 THE SON AND HEIR. 

Beatrice. I shall kiss you again. {Goes to him.) 

(Warn Ligkts.) 

Cecil {running avDuy from her with shrill little 
screams ; crosses below her to up R.) No, no, Bee, 
it's not fair ! I'm too old to be slobbered over. 
I 

(Beatrice pursues him.) 

Brock {aside to Amy). Come back here as soon 
as you can. I've something very important to tell 
you. 

Amy {aside to Brock). I will— but 

Brock. Ssh ! 

Beatrice {turning hack to them with the kissed 
and crestfallen Cecil). There ! Now he's punished 
I^ 

{Upper door l. opens and Miss Chilworth appears, 
wearing a dark wrapper.) 

Miss Chilworth {peevishly). My dear children ! 
What a noise you've been making! It's impossible 
to get any sleep. 

Beatrice. Oh, how thougbtless of us. Aunt 
Agatha. 

Cecil {gloomily). I shall catch it again. When- 
ever there's a dust-up I'm the one to get dusted. 

Miss Chilworth. Not that I mind not sleeping if 
it amuses you all. But what'll your dear father say 
if he sees a light burning here at this hour ? 

Cecil {crosses l. helow table). Father's asleep in 
the west wing. 

Miss Chilworth. No, he isn't. He went across 
to the stables about half an hour ago. I saw him 
quite distinctly in the moonlight. 

Beatrice and Amy {together). Put out the light ! 
{Cecil darts up to switch and turns off the light.) 



THE SON AND HEIR. 



63 



Miss Chilworth. Well, wasn't it kind of your 
Aunt Agatha to come and warn you ? 

{No one pays any attention to her. From the moment 
it is known that Sir Everard is about there is a sort 
of suppressed panic in the room.) 

Beatrice. We must pack off to bed as quickly 
as possible. {Kissing Amy.) Good night, darling, 
off with you. {She bundles her out upper door l.— 
crosses below table.) Good night, Mr. Brock. Coming 
Aunt Agatha ? 

f Brock crosses back of table c. to up r.) 

Miss Chilworth. In a moment. 

'■■ {Exit Beatrice upper door l.) 

{To Cecil who now stands yawning). And has the 
sandman come, my little man ? 

Cecil {eyeing her ungallantly). He might if you'd 
go- 

Miss Chilworth. {going to him). Aunt Agatha'll 
tuck you up in bed. 

Cecil. No, she won't. 

Miss Chilworth {offended). Oh, very well. {Goes 
up L.) 

Cecil {dreamily, comes to club fender and sits). 
I say, I got an awful whacking this afternoon. 

Miss Chilworth {in a tone of whining pity). My 
poor dear child. {Pauses up l.) 

Cecil {in a louder voice). Would you like to see 
my bruises ? 

Miss Chilworth {indignantly). Certainly not. 

{E.xits quickly upper door l.) 

Cecil {coming to table). I say, Brock, I'm jolly 
sorry you're off. Is there anything I can do ? 

Brock {coming to table with book from top of cup- 
board—surprised). No, old man. Oh, you might 



64 THE SON AND HEIR. 

take these in. {Giving him books from table.) I'll be 
in presently to pack. 

Cecil {enviously). I wish I could leave " Led- 
gers." 

Brock. I wish I could stay at " Ledgers." 

Cecil. That's funny, isn't it ? 

,(Brock nods, unable to speak, and smiles reassuringly 
at the boy.) 

{Exit Cecil lower door l.) 

(Brock anxiously watches the other door. Goes l. 
then up at top of table. Bright firelight in the room, 
moonlight^ from the window. Enter Amy upper door 
L. breathless. Without a word Brock draws her 
quickly into his arms, kisses her, and then puts her 
from him almost abruptly. Goes down a step.) 

Amy {peering at him). What's the matter ? You 
frighten me ! Has something happened ? 

Brock. Yes. 

Amy. It's father. {Panic stricken.) He knows ! 

Brock. Yes. 

Amy. How did he find out ? 

Brock {comes down). Everard ! 

Amy. The sneak ! 

Brock. Oh, he was in his rights. {Dou^n to near 
bottom end of table, not too far from chair.) I'm a 
damned scoundrel. 

Amy {coming to him). Is that what they think? 
How little they know. I loved your first. 

Brock. No, you didn't ! 

Amy. I did, I did ! And if you hadn't told me 
that you loved me too, I couldn't have lived. 

Brock. You believe that now but if I'd held my 
tongue, I might have saved you some of this pain. 
{Puts her hand down.) 

AmYs What makes you say that ? They're not 
going to send you awa}^ ? 

Brock. Yes. 



THE kSON and heir. ^f^ 

. Amy. John ! John ! You shan't go ! You shan't 
go! 

^ Brock. I must. But I'll come back for you. 
{Resolutely.) Somehow, somewhere, I'm going to 
make money enough to come back and claim you — 
even if it means the West Coast first. 

Amy {catching hold of his arm). No, no, not that — 
suppose you ha.d fever and died out there — all alone — • 
even if you got through — we'd be separated for years. 

Brock. That has to be in any case. 

Amy. Oh, John ! {She bon's her head over his 
arm, crying.) 

Brock. We're not the only lovers who have been 
parted, my sweetheart. 

Amy. None of the others ever loved each other 
as much as we do. 

Brock. Little Amy ! Listen — {Puts her in arm- 
chair, kneels by her k. of her) promise you'll wait for 
me ? 

Amy. Wait for you ? Indeed, indeed I will: 
But suppose I wait so long that I grow old and plain 
and cross ? 

Brock {smiling). Not even if you did I should 
still love you, the Amy inside. It wasn't only pretty 
hair, and bright eyes I fell in love with, but a warm 
heart, a fine little soul. 

Amy. No one but you sees anything in mc: — people 
think I'm only '' another girl." But when I'm with 
you even I begin to believe I'm quite wonderful. 
{Leani7ig her head against him.) You're so good to me, 
you bring out tiie good in me. 

Brock. That's so easy. 

Amy. You give me strength. {Away from hir/i.) 
I'm an awful coward really but when you're beside 
me, I'm so brave — so brave I'm almost not afraid of 
father. 

Brock (rises). What's going to happen when I'm 
not beside you ? 

hmx {firing lip): You keep coming back to that! 

E 



66 THE SON AND HEIR. 

There are only two people in the world who care for 
me, Bee and you. I've lost Bee, and now you want 
to go away ! 

Brock {turns to her, reproachfully). Want to ? 

Amy {puts out, her hand, repentant). How unjust 
I am ! 

{He goes to her, she takes his l. hand in hers.) 
I'll reproach myself when you're not here. {Pitifully.) 
You will write every day ? 

{He shakes his head.) 

Then every other day ? 

{Warn Curtain.) 

Brock. Darling, you won't be allowed to have 
my letters. 

Amy. Not allowed to — Father wouldn't intercept 
them. 

Brock. He's given me fair v>^arning he means to 
cure you. 

Amy. I must hear from you — I must. You can 
write under cover to Bee 

Brock. Mrs. Wishaw may object to 

Amy. Bee'll ido it for me — before you go — {lets 
her hand go.) I'll persuade her — there's plenty of 
time. 

Brock {goes away down stage a little. Trying 
to prepare her). That's it — that's it. Amy. There'll 
be very little time. 

Amy. There must be some time — Father has to 
give you long enough to look around — to make your 

arrangements 

(Brock shakes his head ; in growing panic.) 
He can't humiliate you — turn you out of the house 
like a thief ^ 

Brock. I've got to go to-morrow. 

Amy {rises). Not to-morrow, John, don't say to- 
morrow. {To him.) It couldn't be to-morrow. 

Brock {taking her in his arms). To-morrow morn- 



THE SON AND HEIR. 67 

ing, m}^ darling, early to-morrow morning. This is 
the last chance we shall have to meet alone, perhaps 
for years. This is good-bye. 
Amy {faintly). Good-bye ! 

{They cling together as if they feared to be torn apart 
at any moment. Suddenly Brock fmd.s that Amy is 
inanimate in his arms.) 

Brock {frightened). Amy! Amy! {Louder.) 
Amy ! Amy ! {Calling.) Cecil ! Come here at once. 
Cecil! 

He feels of her heart. A little reassured he lays her 
gently down on floor l. below armchair, putting cush- 
ion from chair under her head!) 

Cecil. Did you call ? 
Brock {kneeling beside Amy). Yes. 
Cecil {startled). What's up ? 
Brock. She's fainted. Run and fetch. Mrs. 
Wishaw. No one else, you understand ? 
Cecil {going). Right ! 
Brock. Be quick ! 

{Exit Cecil upper door l,) 

(Brock rises and fetches carafe of water from book-case. 
He wets his handkerchief and applies it to Amy's 
temples. She begins to revive.) 

Amy {faintly). What was it ? 

Brock {gently). It's all right, my sweetheart. 

{Re-enter Cecil with Beatrice upper door l. She 
has changed her evening dress for a tea gown.) 

Beatrice {anxiously). What's happened? 
Brock. Your sister fainted. I v/as so frightened 
I sent for you. But she's come to now. 

{He rises, yielding his place to Beatrice.) 



^8 THE. SON AND HEIR. 

Beatricl: {kneeling and supporting Amy, ivho has 
struggled to a kneeling position). My Amy ! Do 
you feel better nov/ ? 

Amy. Bee ! Everything faded all of a sudden. 
{Sits up.) c;. 

Beatrice. What made you faint ? b. 

Brock. Don't ask her now. a. 

Beatrice. But what were you doing here ? 

Brock. She'll tell you to-morrow. 

Amy. To-jnorrow ? What is jt that's going tq 
happen to-morrow ? 

Beatrice. Don't try to remember now, darling. 
Bee's going to put you to bed. (To Brock as they get 
Amy to her feet.) Will you help me to get her as far 
as her door ? 

Brock. I think I'd better carry her to her room. 

(He picks Amy up in his arms and carries her out upper 
door L. to Beatrice's astonishment.) 

{She is. ah'jiil to follow them out ivhen she sees Cecil 
standing l. c. open mouthed.) 

Beatrice {coming quickly hack to him, quietly). 
Cecil, not a word of this to father. 

Cecil (indignantly). What do you take me for? 
A sneak ? 

Beatrice {putting her hand on his shoulder). I'm 
certain I can trust you. 

Cecil (mollified). But I say, it does look jolly 
queer. 

Beatrice {looking apprehensively after Amy, with 
a little catch in her voice) . Yes, it does look jolly queer. 

{She follows Brock and Amy out, leaving Cecil stand- 
ing there.) 

Curtain. 

{Plays about twenty-six minutes.) 



ACT III 

Scene. — Beatrice Wish aw' s sitting-room. 

See plan on opposite page. 

An early Georgian boudoir furnished in gilt wicker-ivork 
of the period save for one or two upholstered pieces. 
On the R. a fireplace with a Flaxman chimney-piece 
of white marble. Over it a gilt mirror ivith candela- 
bra. At back L. c. door A. opens on to a little cor- 
ridor. At one end of this corridor, directly facing 
door A. is the door of Felix Fouries bedroom. The 
corridor branches off r. into hall. Within the room, 
to L. of door A. arch b. opens on to the communi- 
cating bedroom. A glimpse of a richly-curtained 
four-poster , the edge of a dressing-table and a chair. 
On the L. a window, noiv curtained, overlooks the 
park. Facing window a table desk and a chair. 
Down L. front a little table ivith flowers and a lorn) 
settee of gilt wickerwork. Down R. c. front an ottoman 
of old brocade. A screen of old needlework framed 
in gilt down in corner r. below mantel. A harp in 
corner above mantel. Facing the fire a sofa up- 
holstered in brocade. An aubusson carpet of faded 
rose. Curtains of old pink brocade. On the walls 
some eighteenth century pastel portraits. A fire is 
burning and the lights are up in both rooms. 

{At rise Dorman can be seen in bedroom, fast asleep 
in dressing-table chair. Enter Beatrice door a. 
She comes in thoughtfully, closes door a. and turns 
to bedroom. Seeing Dorman asleep she pauses in 

69 



70 THE SON AND HEIR. 

ArcJi B. smilmg, then goes up, taps Dorm an on 
face, stands watchmg her.) 

jyoRUA-H^ {ivaking) . Oh ! I beg pardon, I'm sure, 
ma'am — I'd almost dropped off. {Rising.) A thing 
I never do \ {Comes in arcJi b.) 

Beatrice {comes to hack of w. table). That's all 
right, Dorman. But you needn't have waited. 

DoRMAN. I thought you might be requiring some- 
thing else, ma'am. 

Beatrice. No. 

(Dorman about to move.) 

Oh, yes. Fetch my other slippers, please. I'm not 
going to bed yet. 

(Dorman returns to bedroom. Beatrice comes down. 
Loo/iing at a little jewelled clock le'hich is on table 
desk L.) 

I'm afraid I kept you waiting very late for " Ledgers." 
It's nearly twelve. 

Dorman {in bedroom). Bless your heart, miss, I 
mean ma'am, that don't matter. I saw to her lady- 
ship before ever I come to you, so there's no one been 
inconvenienced but me. 

Beatrice. I had to stay with Miss Amy a little. 
She'd actually fainted. 

Dorman {coming in with a pair of fancy slipp.rs. 
Then that was why Master Cecil came to fetch you all 
of a fluster ? 

Beatrice. Yes. {Cross beloiv Dorman to fire.) 
I'm very worried about my sister, Dorman. {Leaves 
handkerchief on mantelpiece.) 

Dorman {placidly). Are you, ma'am ? 

Beatrice {tttrning and facing Dorman). Dorman, 
you've known Miss Amy since she was a little girl. 
Don't you think she's changed greatly the last three 
years ? 

Dorman {non-committal). Some might say she 
had and some might say she hadn't. 



THE SON AND HEIR. ;71 

Beatrice {pert urbed). She seems frailer each time 
I see her, more nervous, more excitable. And then 
to-night — for no apparent reason^she suddenly faints. 
{Goes to her.) You're a sensible body, Dorman. How 
do you account for it ? 

Dorman {reticent). Miss Amy's getting on. 

Beatrice. " On ? " She's only twenty-four. 

Dorman. Twenty-four is " on." It's time Miss 
Amy was married. 

Beatrice {taken aback. To audience). Married? 
{To Dorman.) Do you mean to some particular 
person ? {Sits.) 

Dorman. No, ma'am, that don't matter. Any 
husband takes the nonsense out of ^ us. women. 

Beatrice {shaking her head). I've not much con- 
fidence in your remedy, Dorman. It's been known 
to fail. {Sits on stool.) 

Dorman {kneeling before her and taking off her 
slippers). So has most medicine. 

Beatrice {smiling). But— — 

Dorman. That don't say we don't need it. 

Beatrice {trying to stem the tide) . Really, Dorman, 
I— 

Dorman {fairly started). Lord, ma'am, now you've 
a husband of your own a little truth won't harm. 
And as my old father used to say "Woodstock do 
get jumpy if it ain't paired." 

Beatrice. My slippers, Dorman. 

Dorman {putting on one slipper ; garrulously). 
These times people hold back wedding-bells as if 
they was bolting horses. Why, at Miss Amy's age 
your lady mother had two bouncing babies to look 
after. Little time had she for nerves and vapours 
and such like ! 

Beatrice. The other foot, Dorman. , 

Dorman. They put marriage off "too late nowa- 
days, and that's a fact. Seems as though parents 
didn't trouble themselves any longer to find their 
daughters husbands — they simply leave it to Provi- 



7i THE SON AND HEIR. 

(ience. As if marriage wasn't enough of a lottery 
already ! 

Beatrice (rises, crosses below Dorman to settee 
L.c.) .. Thank you, Dorman, that will do. 

Dorman {going up, stops). Shall' you be requiring 
anything more, ma'am ? 

Beatrice. Nothing, thanks. {Sits on settee l. c.) 

(Dorman takes slippers into bedroom.) 

(Picking lip book off table l. c.) I shall read a little 
before I go to bed. 

Dorman {coming out of bedroom, goes down to r. of 
her). Then good night, ma'am.. And don't you 
worry about Miss Amy, ma'am. Find her a nice 
husband and you'll hear no more of fainting-fits — 
(Goes up to door A.) unless it's in a better cause. 

Beatrice. Good-night, Dorman. 

{Exit Dorman door a.) 

(Beatrice waits until she is safely out, rises, puts down 
book and goes up into bedroom. She pulls down 
blind in bedroom. Then she goes to dressing-table, 
and gives a touch to her hair. Having turned out 
lights in bedroom, she returns to sitting-room, goes 
to window L., peers out into park, and draws the 
curtains a little closer. Crossing to fire, picks up 
wood, stops, listens, puts wood on fire, stops as a 
knock comes on door A. She gives a little sigh of 
relief and opens it. Enter Pascoe Tandridge.) 

Pascoe. A]ii I late ? {Crosses below her to L.) 
I was afraid to come before twelve. 

Beatrice {leaning against the closed door). I only 
got rid of Dorman a few moments ago. {She is about 
to join him.) 

PASCOE {standing below her). Don't move ! I 
want to look at you. 

{She keeps still, leaning against chair smiling.) 



THE SON AND HEIR. 73 

How long is it ? 

Beatrice. Since you last saw me ? 

Pascoe. Yes. 

Beatrice. Don't you know ? 

Pascoe. Yes, but I want to see if you do. 

Beatrice. It's three months and three days.? 

Pascoe. And then it was only at some horrible 
function where I had to murmur, " Isn't it going off 
well ? " When I wanted to say, {Moves up a step.) 
*' My Beatrice — my darling — I love you still — I love 
you still." 

Beatrice. May I move yet ? 

Pascoe {gazing at her). No. 

Beatrice {remaining in the same position). Were 
you pleased when I wrote you to meet me here ? 

Pascoe. Pleased ! It inspired me. Wasn't the 
Frenchman a stroke of genius ? 

Beatrice. He was providential. 

Pascoe. Your people can't possibly guess that 
our turning up at the same time was pre-arranged. 

Beatrice. Well. {Comes down to r. of him, level 
with him). Are you glad to see me ? 

Pascoe. Don't ask me that ! I'm trying to keep 
my self-control. 

Beatrice {coquetting). You seem to be keeping it 
admirably. 

Pascoe {drawing her to him). Beatrice ! {He 
takes her in his arms and kisses her passionately.) 

Beatrice {yielding). Pascoe ! 

Pascoe {looking into her eyes, softly). You've 
changed. It's the first time I've kissed you and you 
haven't struggled against me. What's happened ? 

Beatrice. I've come to a decision. Oh, I've 
so much to tell you, dear. 

{They come don'n l. together.) 

Come and sit beside me. {Sits on settee.) 

Pascoe {sitting beside her). Beautrice, how won- 
derful it is to be with you ! 



74 THE SON AND HEIR. 

Beatrice. You're still of that mind ? 

Pascoe. If you ask me questions like that • 

Beatrice. I've got to make sure. 

Pascoe. Haven't I loved you hopelessly for 
years ? Is it likely I should change now ? 

Beatrice. An idealistic love for a married woman 
is a pleasant incentive to a young author. 

Pascoe. Careful, Bee. I don't feel patient this 
evening. 

Beatrice {r/iischievously) . But who knows ? If 
Laura had shown signs of yielding Petrarch might 
have been unexpectedly called away from Verona. 

Pascoe {rises, knee on settee, catching her by the 
shoulders). Will you bolt with me ? 

Beatrice {looking straight at him). Yes. 

Pascoe. When ? 

Beatrice. Whenever you like. {Rises.) 

Pascoe. Whenever I like ? Beatrice ! {Kisses 
her.) What's done it ? Nothing / was ever able to 
say could persuade you. 

Beatrice. No. Lionel's done it. 

Pascoe. How ? Has he been brutal ? 

Beatrice. No. 

Pascoe. Indifferent ? 

Beatrice. He was always that. 

Pascoe. You've found out ? 

Beatrice. Things that^ make it impossible for me 
to even live in the same house with him. 

Pascoe. Mrs. Sartoris ? 

Beatrice. You knew ? 

Pascoe. Yes. 

Beatrice {looks at him in surprise). Yet you never 
urged that as a reason for me to leave him. 

Pascoe. No. 

Beatrice. That was sporting of you, Pascoe. 
But was it fair to me ? 

Pascoe. It vv^as selfish. I wanted you to come to 
me because you couldn't live without me. Not merely 
because you'd found your husband out. 



THE SON AND HEIR. 75 

Beatrice. Oh, Pascoe, if father had only let us 
marry six years ago, or if I hadn't been so weak ! 
Pascoe. You weren't weak — you were dominated. 
I never blamed you. I understood. 

Beatrice. When father urged me to. marry 
Lionel, I thought he must know best. Oh, I tried to 
do my duty. I tried conscientiously to love Lionel. 
(Laughing ruefully, crosses doivn towards lower end 
of settee l.c.) How my gawky attempts at wifely 
affection must have bored him ! 

Pascoe. Don't 1 Don't ! {Turns from her.) 
Beatrice {looking up at him) And then, as 
every hope of happiness with Lionel left me {turns 
to him : puts arms around him), you crept back into 
my empty heart, you, my first love, my one love. 
Your caring was all I had, it was my secret treasure. 
I thought of you so constantly that when I used 
actuaUy to meet you it was startling. 

Pascoe. Were't you glad to see me, then ? 
Beatrice. You were my one comfort— and my 
great trial. 

Pascoe {taking her in his arms). And you, do 
you know how you've haunted me ? Do you know 
all the frantic ways I've tried to forget you ? Lve 
been ascetic ; I've run riot ; I've travelled half over 
the world ; I've made love to other women to forget 
you And I can't, nothing will drive you out of my 
heart ; I come back to England just for the pam of 
being under the same grey sky with you and letting 
the ache and the longing grow aMittle worse. Id 
barter my fame, my future, my life, to have you lor 
my own,'to hold you in my arms, to lay my head upon 
your breast. I love. you. , 

Beatrice {looks up at him. Softly, laying her hand 
on his). Pascoe, I've been cruel to you. 

^ Pascoe. No, no, that's all forgotten. {Anxiously 
—childishly.) For you're mine, now, aren't you? 

Beatrice. I rsu\ 'f 

Pascoe {putting his hand on her lips). Uh, clon t 



76 THE SON AND HEIR. 

unsay the words that have made mo sohapp^r. It's 
true ? — it's not a dream ? — Will you come with me 
to-morrow ? Early ? 

Beatrice. Yes. 

Pascoe {takes both her hands) . Where shall I take 
you first, Beatrice ? To Venice ? To Eg3/pt ? 

Beatrice. Take me into your everyday life— 
that's where I want to go. 

Pascoe. My darling 1 {Eagerly.) Where shall 
we meet ? London ? We can't leave " Ledgers " 
together. 

Beatrice {considering). Why riot ? 

Pascoe. They'll expect you to start off from here 
in the motor. 

Beatrice. So I wiU. {To him.) But I can offer 
to drive you as far as the station. There, instead 
of bidding you good-bye, I'll jump oat, send the motor 
speeding back to Bellingham Park- — — 

Pascoe. While you go on to London with me ! 

Beatrice. Oh, Pascoe, I haven't a misgiving left 
in me. I didn't know scruples were such a weight. 
I feel like a tramp who's cast aside all superfluous 
luggage. 

Pascoe {holding her at arms length^. My gorgeous 
tramp ! How you've run riot in furbelows these four 
years. Any one could have told the Honourable Mrs. 
Wishaw was unhappy. 

Beatrice {startled). How ? 

Pascoe. You held orgies of embroidery. You 
tippled in hats. When men are wretched they take 
to drink. Unhappy women take to dress. 

Beatrice. If that's infallible I shall only need 
one plain alpaca a year now. 

Pascoe. I hope alpaca's serviceable ? 

Beatrice. Why ? Are you going to warn me 
that you're only a poor devil 4i an author ? 
. Pascoe. No. 

Beatrice. That's right. 

Pascoe. But I'm going to ask you an important 



Tlf^:'^, ,SON AND HEIR. 77 

question. Has V^i'^Haw any suspicion of whni you. 
mean to do ? 

Beatrice. Not the slightest. Nor has Mrs. 
Sartoris — which is much more important. {Goes 
down to stool.) 

Pascoe. There's no doubt but what he'H divorce 
you ? 

BeatruI':. a great deal. He can't marry her or 
he wouldn't have married mic. 

Pascoe. {perturbed, walking about). Beatrice, do 
you realize wiiat it means for you if he doesn't divorce 
you ? 

Beatrice {is sitting on stool down r. c). Now 
you're going to lecture me. 

Pascoe. I must. 

Beatrice. Then I shall turn my back on you. 
{Titrns face \i.) 

Pascoe. Do. {Goes to back of her.) I can keep 
my nerve n:uch (setter if I don't see your eyes. 

Beatrice {looks up at hi-?n). This position has 
other advantages. 

Pascoe. What ? 

BeatricI'.. Your arguments will go over my 
head. 

Pascoe. I must make you see that the bargain 
you're making is all in my favour. Were I a diplo- 
matist, a doctor, a politician, we could be comfortably 
wrecked togetfuT. But I'm in one of the few careers 
in England that can't be blighted by talk. On the 
contrary ! The worse the notoriety the happier the 
publishers. Okl maids will rash for my last novel. 
A really shocking scandal would send me into a tenth 
edition ! 

Beatrice {turns face from up stage). You don't 
know how you relieve my mind. The one thing that 
could have stopped me was the possibility of hurting 
your career. 

Pascoe {to . her) . Beatrice ! 

Beatrice. As for m}^ people I scarcely exist for 



78 THE SON AND HEIR. 

them now. {Half to herself.) I'm married and done 
for. 

Pascoe. Still, yom- mother will feel this. 

Beatrice. Mother' 11 be shocked. [Turns to him.) 
My conduct will be incomprehensible to her. She'll 
class me with a trusted family servant of ours who 
stole a gold watch. 

Pascoe. And the boys ? 

Beatrice. At first they'll be vaguely resentful. 
They'll be forbidden to mention my name, so they'll 
talk of me sometimes in whispers. But they'll soon 
forget me. 

Pascoe {goes to her). How about Amy ? 

Beatrice. Poor little Amy ! She'll cry — yes, 
she'll wake up in the night and cry, and think me 
dreadfully wicked. But some day, when she's lived 
longer, she and I will meet and talk things over and 
she'll understand. 

Pascoe {with a sigh of relief). Then the lecture 
is at an end. I see that it's impossible to convince 
you that you're about to take a singularly foolish 
step. {He turns her face up to him, kisses her.) 

Beatrice. How is it you haven't mentioned 
father ? 

Pascoe {hard). Because it's his fault. {Step 
away), Tm not even sorry for him. 

Beatrice. Yet he's the one who'll feel this the 
most. 

Pascoe. And he's the one human being who could 
stop you. 

Beatrice. Do you think I'm afraid of father 
now ? {Rises.) 

Pascoe. I didn't mean through fear, through yout 
heart. 

Beatrice. He's never attempted to reach it. 

Pascoe. Why should he ? You were a part of 
his property — a marriageable* daughter. 

Beatrice. We might have been such pals, father 
and I, that's the pity, of it. Even now I have the 



V u I 



THE SON AND HEIR. 79 

most singular feeling for him. It's vital, I seem 
literally to feel his blood flowing in my veins. There's 
nothing I couldn't have done for him if he'd only 
understood me — if he'd only once met me face to face 
as another human being. 

Pascoe {panic-stricken, to her). Promise {takes 
her hands) he shan't rob me of you a second time. 

Beatrice {turns to him). Aren't you foolish! 
You know he won't find it out until too late. 

Pascoe. Then ^^ou're determined to throw yourself 
away on me ? 

Beatrice. Quite. 

Pascoe. I swear you'll never regret it ! Whatever 
you may wish, whatever you ask of me from iibw on 
shall be done blindly. 

Beatrice {teasing). Suppose I asked you to give 

me up ? 

Pascoe {hesitatingly). I — I'd do it. 

Beatrice, {half jestingly). Honour? 

Pascoe. Yes, honour. 

Beatrice. Is it likely I should ask you that ? 
Here is my one hope of happiness ! {In his arms.) 

Pascoe. And mine, Beatrice— and mine ! {Kisses 
her.) 

{A pause.) 

Beatrice {drawing gently a. my). You must go 

now. 

Pascoe. Don't send me away yet. 

Beatrice. It's late. 

Pascoe {holding her). I can't leave you. 

Beatrice. No, no, I'll go with you boldly, Pascoe, 
and face the world, but I won't sneak. {Goes up stage 
by armchair l. of fire.) 

Pascoe. You're right 

Beatrice. Just now you promised to do blindly 
whatever I asked of you. 

Pascoe. I meant it. 

Beatrice. Then go now. 



80 THE SON AND HEIR. 

Pascoe. Very well, I will. {Goes up, stops.) 

(A knock door A.) 

^ What's that ? 

Beatrice {up to level with Jiiin). I don't know. 
Pascoe. Your father ? 

[Knock repeated softly) 

Beatrice {relieved). No. It's Amy. I know her 
knock. {Goes up.) 

Pascoe (goes towards bedroom.) Shall I go in 
here ? 

Beatrice. No. Why should you hide? I'll 
open the door. 

{She opens door a. Amy, looki^ig pale and ill, comes 
in. She is wearing a kimono.) 

Amy {wildly to Beatrice). Bee ! I can't get to 
sleep ! I thought you might be awake still and that I 
{Seeing Pascoe.) Oh ! 

Beatrice {putting her arm round Amy). It's all 
right, dear. It's only Pascoe. 

Amy {drawing her kimono closer). Oh ! I didn't 
think there' d be any one with you so late ■ 

Beatrice. Pascoe and I had something to tell 
each other. 

Pascoe. So I forced myself in here. It was my 
fault. {Taking Amy's reluctant hand.) Remember 
that. My fault. Good night. 

Amy {wonderingly). Crosses below Pascoe to settee 
L. c). Good night. 

Pascoe {looking at Beatrice, but not touching her). 
Until to-morrow ? 

Beatrice. To-day! "To-morrow" has begun. 

{Exit Pascoe door a. He closes door.) 

(Goes down to Amy). What's the matter ? When I 
left you were dozing off. 



THE HON AND HEIR. 81 

{They sit on setter.) 

Couldn't vou sleep, dearest ? 

Amy. I think I did a little. Then I woke up 
and remembered. {Breaking down.) Bee ! I'm so 

unhappy! . , . , ^ u- 

Beatrice {drawing her into her arms and rocking 
her). Tell Bee— tell Bee all about it — just as you 
used to when you were a funny little girl and got 
into funny little scrapes. Is this a scrape ? 

Amy [frord Beatkice's shoulder). Oh, a big, big 
scrape. 

Beatrice. You're in love with John Brock. 
Amy {silting up, surprised). How did you know? 
Beatrice. Silly child ! 

Amy. Bee ! Don't say you're against me too ! 
Beatrice. I ? Against you ? Never 1 
Amy. Then you do like him ? 
Beatrice. Yes, indeed ! He's a friend of Pasco.e's. 
Pascoe was telling me to-night at dinner what a fine 
chap Brock is. 

Amy. That was kind of Pascoe ! AUhough it's 
true. And isn't John handsome ? 
Beatrice. Does he love you too ? 
Amy. Of course. He's perfect ! 
Beatrice {smiling at her answers). No money, 
naturally. 

Amy. Not a penny.. 

Beatrice. What a pity. Father'd snap at a 
prosperous son-in-law ; he likes his daughters to marry 
" well." 

Amy. We knew lie'd never consent. But some- 
how I believed a miracle would happen for us. I've 
been living in a dream. 

Beatrice. No, you've been in love, that's all. 
Amy. Now I'm awake and John is to be takert 
from me. 
Beatrice {rises). What ? 

Amy. To-morrow! He's being sent away. {Comes^ 
to Beatrice, slipping down on her knees and hiding 

F 



82 THE SON AND HEIR. 

her face on Beatrice's lap). What shall I do, Bee ? 
What shall Ido? 

Beatrice. Do? Marry him now. Go with him. 
Face the future together — 

Amy {looking up). But ' 

Beatrice. Don't hesitate ! Oh, Amy, love as it 
first comes to'us,is so radiant, so untouched, so holy — 
you'll never "feel quite the same for each other again — 
I don't want you to lose the most beautiful thing in 
life. 

Amy. But I can't marry him nov/. Father won't 
let me. 

Beatrice. Do you imagine he'll ever let you? 

Amy. If John gets on 

Beatrice. Do you suppose Father's going to wait 
for that ? Do you know what his next move will 
be ? He'll marry you safely off to the first unsuitable 
person he can find. 

Amy {goes lip c). He shan't! He shan't! 

Beatrice. If father has the power to separate you 
from the man you love he can make you do anything ! 

Amy {turns to Beatrice). Not that, not that ! 

Beatrice (co/wes to her). Amy, listen to me while 
there^s still time. You're a girl and I'm a woman. 
And as I love you I tell you that the most horrible 
thing that can happen to a woman is to belong to one 
man when she loves another. 

Amy. Beatrice, I'll never^ 

Beatrice. Had I known what I know now five 
years ago, no power on earth would have driven me 
to the altir with Lionel Wishaw. You shan't go 
through what' I have — you shan't come to what I 
have — if you'll listen to me. 

Amy. I will. Bee. I promise you I won't marry 
any one else on my sacred word of honour. 

Beatrice. Then marry the man you love ! 

Amy. But how should we live. Bee — he couldn't 
stay on at the school — or take me to the West 
Coast 



THE SON AND HEIR. 8^:. 

Beatrice {crosses below her to r. of her). I'll get . 
Lionel to put him into something. {Remember ing.)< 
No, I can't do that now. But there is a way and 
I shall find it. 

Amy {rises). You don't understand. 

Beatrice. It's you who don't understand. 
{Taking her by the shoulder s) . You're'twenty-four years 
of age, and you're going to let happiness slip through , 
your fingers — not because you're afraid of poverty — 
or rough luck — or anything like that, but simply , 
because you're afraid of father. 

• Amy {capitulating). It's true, Bee, it's true. I 
can't face father in one of his tempers. When he 
looks at me crossly — when he shouts at me — I get 
cold all over and begin to tremble. I can't help it. 
{Collapses on settee l. c.) 

Beatrice {impatiently) . Oh ! And he counts on it. 
{Crosses r.) 

Amy. I shall never forget, when I was about 
twelve — and I went to tea with the little French girl 
he'd forbidden me to know, when I came back — ^his 
face as he struck me {Shudders.) 

Beatrice {goes' c). You were a child then! 

Amy. It was the same three years ago when I' 
wanted to be a hospital nurse {Crouches on settee.) — ' 
the things he said ! The way he shouted at me, and . 
banged his fist down ! 

Beatrice {indignant. Crosses l. to settee). It's 
bullying — it's the lowest kind of tyranny ! And it 
succeeds ! You submit ! Rather than risk arousing 
his temper you'll grow into . a disappointed spinster 
without a tie or an aim in life ! Oh, I'll speak to 
father ! I'm not afraid of him any more. {Goes up a 
little.) 

Amy {frightened. Rises, goes to her L. of her). . 
No, no, Bee, you mustn't ! Think how angry he'd 

be with you ! He might even 

{Door A. is suddenly thrown open and Sir Everard 



S4i THE SON AND HEIR. 

stands on the threshold. He wears a tweed coat 
oi^er his dress -suit.) 

Amy {panic-stricken) . Father ! 

Beatrice [putting her arm round Amy). You 
might have knocked, father. This is my room. 

Sir Everard {to Amy). So you're here, are you ?. 
As I came back from the stable I saw your Hghts. 
T went to your room — it was empty. {He comes 
down.) 

Amy. I couldn't sleep — I came to Bee. 

Sir Everard. I thought perhaps you'd gone to 
your lover. 

Beatrice (seeing Amy wince) . Father ! 

Sir Everard. What am I to believe' when my 
daughter becomes secretly engaged under my very 
roof ! 

Amy {hidJng her face on Beatrice's shoulder). I 
told Bee. 

Sir Everard. I see. You can confide in your 
sister. She knows your secrets, eh ? But your 
parents are kept in the dark. 

Amy {sobbing). I couldn't tell mother — she'd 
have told you. 

Sir Everard {infuriated). And so for a whole 
year you carry on with your brother's tutor behind 
my back ! 

Beatrice {trying to get Amy away). Go to your 
room, Amy. Leave me with father. 

Sir Everard {striding between Beatrice and Amy 
— londly). One moment ! {Cross below Beatrice.) 

(Amy hacks from Sir Everard to l. c.) 

Beatrice {goes up, closes door. Quietly). Monsieur 
Fourie is only across the corridor, father. He'll 
hear you. 

Sir Everard (ignoring Beatrice, but lowering his 
voice). Damn Fourie ! Listen ! In future I shall 
take care to know what goes on in my house. There'll 



THE SON AND HEIR. 86 

be no more John Brocks I promise you. I forbid 
you — I absolutely forbid you to ever see him or 
communicate with him again, do you hear ? 

Amy. You can send him away, you can keep me 
from seeing him, but you can't make me forget him— 
{Turns above settee.) you can't — you can't ! 

Beatrice. Father, let Amy go. Don't you see— 
sbe's on the verge of hysterics. 

Sir Everard {turning on Beatrice, which gims 
Amy a chance to reach door a.) What business is this 
of yours ? Have you been encouraging her in this 
ridiculous infatuation? 

Amy {at door a. imth the courage of utter despair). 
It's not Bee's fault. She knew nothing of it imtil to- 
night. It's my fault ! All my fault ! And I don't 
care if you kill me for it. You've left me nothing to 
live for. 
(She gropes her way, blinded by her tears, Beatrice 

helps her out). 
{With r^/z>/ Beatrice closes door a. after hpr and stands- 

against it.) 

Sir Everard {coldly). Why did you interfere? 

Beatrice. How could I help it ! It was cowardly 
of you to attack a nervous, overwrought, hysterical 
girl ! 

Sir Everard {sarcastically). I regret that my 
manner of conducting my affairs does not meet with 
your approval. There's no more to be said. Except 
good night. 

Beatrice. Please listen, father, 1 want to tell 
you something you don't know. 

Sir Everard. There seems to be a great deal my 
children think I don't know. 

Beatrice {comes a little down on Sir Everard' s 
right). I assure you that Amy is ill. She actually 
fainted this evening. 

Sir Everard. Is it my fault if she's worked herself 
up into such a state ? Is it my fault if she's chosen 



86 THE SO^ AND HEIR. 

to fail in lovc^ vvitli a man wiio can't afford to Ivcep a 
wife ? . . 

Beatrice. Perliaps not. {Coming down to him.) 
But it's your fault tliat slie's mqrbidly afraid of you — ■ 
that she's lo.st all will power of her own. 
.. Sir Everard. This is the f^rst time I've heard it 
was morbid to have some respect for your father's 
wishes, 

Beatrice. It's not respect that makes Amy obey 
you, but fear, blind fear. Is that the sort of obedience 
you care to exact ? 

Sir Everard. I don't care how I exact it — I mean 
to be master in my own house. 

Beatrice. At the price of your daughter's happi- 
ness — her health — her sanity even ? 

Sir Everard. Pshaw! Since the world began 
women who couldn't get their own way have fallen 
,back on fainting fits. 

Beatrice {angry. Turns away from him. Goes 
to fire screen). Oh ! How can you be so unfair — so 
dense — about your own child ? 

Sir Everard. Having been away from home for 
four years you naturally see things more clearly than 
I 'do. Perhaps you'd like to come here and take up 
.the managernent of the estate. 

,. Beatrice {hy fire). Your sarcasm is wasted on 
me, father. I understand Amy better than you do 
simply because I've tried to. , And that's a compli- 
ment you've never paid a woman. 

Sir Everard. I don't attempt the impossible. 
{Rises, goes to her.) Now look here, Beatrice, up to 
the present you and I have got on well. You've 
always fallen in with my views. I shouldn't like to 
think badly of you now. So let's drop it. Your 
father's house is always open to you, but you come 
here nowadays , as an outsider. 

BEATftiCE. That's true. But I love my sister, I 
must speak for her. I must try to make you realize 
her" character. She's not of the stuff of which the 



THE SON AND HEIR. SI 

splendid spinsters arc made. She's weak and idealis- 
tic and emotional. 

Sir Everard (c.) . A girl's one chance of happiness 
doesn't consist in marrying the first man she's love- 
sick over ! {Goes c.) 

Beatrice {gladly ; hopefully. ' Going to him. 
Hand on his arm). Oh ! Is that your only objection ? 
Consent to a long engagement. Put Amy to the 
test. If you separate these two young people, you're 
thwarting nature. 

Sir Everard. I have no respect for nature as a 
matrimonial agent. 

(Beatrice crosses to fire. Sir Everard moves ivp.] 

You talk to me as if I proposed to lock her in a tower 
and keep her on bread and water. This is the tweh- 
tieth century. {He goes to her a step.) Amy's of 
age, I've no legal rights over her. What's to prevent 
her from walking out the front door With this ypuhg 
man ? 

Beatrice. Something much stronger than bolts 
and bars. The habit of giving in to you for twenty- 
four years. 

Sir Everard. So much the better if it saves her 
from marrying a pauper. {Crosses to settee.) 1 

Beatrice {stepping between him and door). But 
what's to become of Amy ? You wouldn't alloW her 
to have a profession— you won't let her marry the 
man of her choice. What's to be her future? 

Sir Everard. If she can't marry' suitably she 
can stay with her parents. 

Beatrice. Suppose she survives you? What 
then ? Everard won't want her herie. 

Sir Everard. Certainly not. When I die she'll 
be provided for. 

Beatrice. Then if she doesn't make' a fine match 
she's condemned to be an old maid ?• 

Sir Everard. What of that ? Not so long ago 
it was an understood thing in good families that one 



g8 THE SON AKD HEIR. 

of the girls remained unmarried to take care of her 
parents when they became infirm. 

Beatrice {with a point of malice). Like Aunt 
Agatha ? 

Sir Everard {annoyed). Your Aunt intended to 
marry. As a girl she had several offers. 

Beatrice. And did her father keep her from 
taking them ? 

Sir Everard {furious) . No, he did not ! {Walking 
about.) If Agatha's a dependent and a charge on me 
now it's because she was too finniky in her youth. At 
some time or other every woman has a chance. 

Beatrice. That's true ! And this is Amy's 
chance, and I'm asking you to give it her ! 

Sir Everard. I wonder I've listened to you. 
{Moving up.) Nowadays you're each of you scam- 
pering after your own private happiness without a 
thought of your duty to the family. 

Beatrice. Our duty to the family being blind 
submission to the head of it, eh, father? 

Sir Everard {exasperated). I've been too patient. 
To let myself be cross-examined by my own daughter. 
{Strides to the door.) 

Beatrice. One moment ! 

(He stops, she goes to him. He pauses, unwillingly 
compelled by the intensity of her manner. She goes 
slowly to him and puts a hand on each shoulder.) 

(Quietly.) (c.) Father — do you love me ? 

Sir Everard {alarmed, c). What do you mean ? 

Beatrice. I mean, have you a real feeling for me 
in your heart ? 

Sir Everard {uncomfortable. Apologetically). Of 
course I — I naturally have a feeling for you. 

Beatrice {crosses to Sir Everard, hands on shoul- 
ders). Then by that feeling, I beg of you, I implore 
you, for my sake — give Amy and Brock just one 
chance. 

Sir Everard {drawing roughly aisjay from her, goes 



THE SON AND HEIR. 89 

away down l. c). I know there was something be- 
hind this display of affection. . 
Beatrice {exasperated). Then you won t relent ^ 
That's final ? Amy can starve for love or be served 

^^m^EvERARD. Why? {Pausing) What have you 
to complain of ? You made a good match ! It s 
proved suitable in every way. 

^ Beatrice. Suitable 1 Did you thmk it suitable 
to give your young daughter to the lover of Mrs. 

^SiR EvERARD {perturbed. Coming to her). Is- 
there trouble between you and your husband, 

BEATRICE. Tell me the truth . When you married 
me to Lionel Wishaw did you know? 

Sir Everard {evasively). I certainly had heard 
their names connected, 

{She turns away from him.) 
but I took Lionel's word that there would be no 
further cause for gossip. v , x c^ ,,nn 

Beatrice {turns to htm— incredulous), bo you 

did do it willingly ? 

Sir Everard. Did what ? 

Beatrice {goes to him c). You made me a wife 
without a chance ! It fitted in with your plans so 
you gave me, a romantic, foolish girl whom you knew 
to be in love with another man, to a l^^^^and who 
had a notorious passion for another woman. What a 
marriaee ! {Cross to fire.) 

Sir Everard [on the defensive). Most men have 
such episodes m their lives. A tactful woman over- 

'°°Bea™S (s»fe on slool). You didn't bring me up 

with those ideas. ^ ,, • ■ 

Sir Everard (comes to her). One can t lell a ^m 

'"beItwce. For five years I've sat at my own tabic 
a cipher^a nobody— an overlooked fool— 



90 THE SON AND HEIR. 

Sir Everard. You've waited a long time to 
make these complaints. 

Beatrice. I tried to make the best of it. I tried 
to please my husband ; I even tried to please his 
mistress — until, quite lately, I found out why Lionel 
married me. 

Sir Everard. He thought you'd make him an 
ideal wife — he told me so at the time. 

Beatrice {faces him). He^narried me because her 
husband was getting suspicious ; he married me to 
silence gossip. 

Sir Everard. What ? 

Beatrice. She thought a daughter of yours would 
be ideal — meek and orthodox and guaranteed to look 
well on a platform. She picked me out for the con- 
stituents ! [Rises and goes up c.) 

Sir Everard (shocked. To her). Are you sure of 
this ? 

Beatrice {htrns to him). Perhaps you'll admit 
now that my m.arriage was a ghastly mistake ! 

Sir Everard {much perturbed. Goes to her). I 
can understand your being shocked and pained at 
this discovery, Beatrice. But yvve must go slow — ■ 
we mustn't do anything rash. 

Beatrice {mockingly). Father, you're wonderful. 

Sir Everard. I'll see Lionel at once. 

Beatrice. Spare yourself the, trouble, I'm going 
to leave him. (Moves from him ; down to stool r.) 

Sir Everard (not relishing the prospect. Doivn to 
her). You mean to come home again ? 

Beatrice. No, father, don't worr}/. (Comes he- 
low stool.) 

Sir Everard (with forced .playfulness). Come, 
come, this won't do, my de^-r. Temper, eh ? And 
jealousy ? Now let you ar^d I sit down and talk this 
over calmly and coolly. ; 

{He motions her to ottoman. She ^its, grimly amused 
at his efforts. He draws the desk chair to c. and 
sits close to her. Putting his- hand on her knee.) 



• THEf SON AND HEIR. 91 

My dear Bee, i£ you leave your husband you'll put 
yourself morally and legally in the wrong. 

Beatrice. Legally, yes. Morally depends. 
' Sir EvERARD. Under any circumstances a wife is 
a wife. 

Beatrice. Lionel only wants me near him at 
•election times. We long ago discarded our parody 
of love. ; ' • 

:: Sir Everard. I feel confident that I can bring 
Wishaw back to a sense of his duty towards you. 
• Beatrice. You couldn't. Nothing could — not 
[even an act of parliament. He knows too much 
about them. 

Sir Everard/ I understand how you feel at pre- 
sent. You're hot-headed, Beatrice. You come by 
it honestly. Eve a bad temper myself, it's soon over, 
but while it lasts I— I could do anything. 

Beatrice. I inherit something beside temper 
from you, father. Obstinacy. {Rises.) 

Sir Everard. Come, come — give yourself time to 
cool down. 

Beatrice. No. I've decided to leave my hus- 
band for ever! (Rising.) I didn't intend you to 
know this until afterwards. I've told you for Amy's 
sake. You separated me from the man I loved as a 
girl. See what comes of it. {Crosses to settee L. c.) 

Sir Everard {goes toii)ard her). Your case and 
Amy's are quite different. She'd never dream of 
taking as mad a step as the one you're contemplating. 

Beatrice. How do you know ? Would you bave 
thought 7ne capable' of what I've decided to do ? 

Sir Everard {irritably, crosses above her to l. of 
writing table). I'll have Keeling over. He's a diplo- 
matic fellow. He shall talk to you. 

Beatrice {throwing herself carelessly on settee l. ; 

her arms behind her head). I wonder how he'll charge 

you for it? '' To trying to persuade Mrs. Wishaw 

to resume her matrimonial shackles— six and eight." 

Sir Everard {banging his fist, down on desk). 



92 THE SON AND HEIR. 

You'll regret not heeding mc some day ! {Then 
behind her and forcing himself to he conciliatory.) 
Come now, say you'll think it over. Don't go away 
outright. Why not visit, us for a little instead, eh ? 

Beatrice {looking up at him; mockingly). You 
told me to-night that I was an outsider here. 

Sir Everard {spluttering). An outsider — an out- 
sider merely.because youVe a home of^your own now — 
that was all I meant. Nothing can alter the fact 
that you're my daughter. Your conduct might have 
the most far-reaching consequences. It might even 
affect Everard's future. {Sits in chair l. of settee^ 

Beatrice {leaning over table and facing him). 
Now we're coming to it. Everard's future ! 

Sir Everard. Suppose you leave Wishaw reck- 
lessly like this — who's to knov/ you're in the right ? 
You'll be talked about, compromised. Old Hazelton 
won't dream of letting his girl marry Itverard if you 
were the notorious Mrs. Wishaw, who'd left her 
husband and God knows what ! 

Beatrice. So you propose to sacrifice me a second 
time to your idol ? 

Sir Everard. What d'you mean ? 

Beatrice. Your idol, the monstrous family idol 
to which we must all bow down and worship — the 
son and heir. , 

Set1.ec Tablo 



ISir E. 



' Sir Everard. What are you talking about ? 

Beatrice {facing him. across table). Do you ever 
admit to yourself the real reason why your daughters 
have got to make good, matches ? I'M tell you. It's 
so that they'll never come to you for help. You'd 
marry us to monsters rather than spare a penny of the 
money that's destined for your idol ! 

Sir Everard {furiously). How dare you ! {Banging 
table). What have you to complain of? 



THLO SON AND HEIR. 93 

Beatrice. I complain that you don't consider 
us your equals or your son's. I complain that my 
sister and I are little more than servants in your eyes, 
to be clothed and. fed and dismissed to our husbands 
with good characters. What affection have you 
shown^us? I could have done anything for you if 
you'd only loved mc a little ! If you'd ever once 
met me face to face — but I've always appealed to 
you in vain. When' I was a little girl and came 
crying to you about my sick terrier you only said it 
must be shot —that I wasn't to bother you— you were 
busy with Everard. And now that I've come to you 
about x\my, it's the same thing. You're busy with 
Everard. 

Sir Everard (bangs fable). Amy ! Back it comes 
to Amy ! That's your grievance. [Rises, crosses 
to fire.) All the rest is trumped-up sentiment to 
move me. As if you could ? Least of all by drag- 
ging in my love for my boy ! 

Beatrice irises, following him c). You think 
that unassailable ! Natural, unselfish, above criti- 
cism ! Well, I tell you your love for your^ eldest 
son is only a glorified form of selfishness. He's niore 
than your flesh and l)lood, he's your name, your title, 
your successor,, the father of your grandchildren — 
he's your mortgage on eternity, a finger you point at 
the world after death ! 

Sir Everard. Stop ! 1 forbid you to say another 
word ! {Goes to her.) You vixen 1 Upon my soul, I 
believe you hate mc ! 

Beatrice. Haven't you done your best to make 
me ? Look at your cruelty to Amy. Look how 
you ignore my mother. Look how you treated me ! 
All the love we could have had for you, you've thrown 
away. You've driv(^;n me to this : I'm not going 
away alone — I'm going with a man. 

Sir Everard {steps back from her). You wanton ! 

Beatrice. Nosv you know and you can't stop me. 
{Goes down l. and then up stage). 



94. THE SON AND HEIR. 

Sir Everard (at his wits end). Beatrice, I beg of 
you, I implore you — I, your father, beg 3/ou not to 
do this thing ! 

Beatrice {from above him]. . When I begged for 
Amy you wouldn't listen to me. 

Sir Everard. You're mad. You will disgrace us 
all — have some pity- 

Beatrice. No, no, you've had none on me ! I 
am glad, glad, glad, glad, that I can hurt you, that I 
can avenge my mother and sister. If it keeps Ever- 
ard from making the match you have planned, I shall 
be happy. I want to sec you wince as you will wince. 
I want you to know that when my motor is announced 
to-morrow morning, that it is the signal. It's all 
been pre-arranged, and you won't be able to stop me. 
You won't be able to stop me ! I am going to bolt 
with the man I love — the man you took from me — with 
Pascoe Tandridge ! 

Sir Everard. My God, I'll kill you first . 

{Warn Curtain.) 

Beatrice {seeing that he has completely lost control 
of himself). Father! {She tries to get to the door.) 
Father ! 

Sir Everard {hetiveen her and the door). I'll kill 
you noli). 

{He forces her down on her knees L. C. and seizes her 
by the throat as if to strangle her. She gives two 
piercing shrieks of fear.) 

Beatrice. Help ! Help ! 

{Her screams arrest him. His hands. drop. He stares 
at her stupidly and passes his hands over his forehead 
like a man coming out of a trance. She stays where 
he has left her. motionless, staring at him, fearing more 
for ivhat he ,iii>as about to become than for herseif.) 

{Then comes a hurried knocking door a.) 



THE SON AND HEIR. 95^ 

Sir Everard (whispering). What's -that ? 

Beatrice {whispering). I don't know. 

Felix {outside the door, knocking). I heard a cry 
for help. What is the matter ? Can I be of any 
assistance ? 

Beatrice {to Sir Everard). It's the Frenchman ! 

Sir Everard. What'll he think ? 

{They ivhisper like two conspirators against a common 
enemy). 

Felix {outside). I heard a cry. Is some one ill ? 
Shall I call the household ? 

Beatrice. I'll have to open it. 

Sir Everard.. Yes. He mustn't know. 

Beatrice, {with a nervous shiver). He shan't. 

(Sir Everard crosses towards window l. She pulls 
herself up, goes reluctantly to the door and throid^s 
it open. Felix, wrapped in an overcoat, stands 
there.) 

Felix {anxiously). My dear Mrs. Wishaw ! You 
are all right ? 

Beatrice {with apparent wonder). Yes. 

Felix. I heard a scream from this room. 

Sir Everard {coming into his line of vision ; 
immaculate in his dress suit : imperturbable in his 
manner). My dear Fourie 

Felix. Sir Everard ! 

Sir Everard. No one has been here this last hour 
but my daughter and myself. 

Felix. So — you have been sitting up talking, you 
two. 

(Beatrice nods.) 

It is not often you have your eldest beautiful daughter 
at home. {Looking around, suspiciously). Still, it is 
strange. I was just dozing off when I heard a woman's 
voice — screaming twice for help Oh I frightened. 



9^ THE SON AND HEIR. 

Beatrice. There is a grey lady supposed to haunt 
the room you're sleeping in, but I never heard of her 
screaming before. {Goes to fire.) 

Felix {beginning to wonder if he didn't imagine it). 
Oh ! A grey lady ! It is strange. I must apologise 
for so absurdly disturbing you. {About to go.) 

Sir Everard. Not at all, my dear Fourie. 

(Felix stops.) 

Very gallant of you to fly to the rescue of a damsel 
in distress — even if she was only a ghost. Or a night- 
mare, eh, Fourie ? {Looking ai'his watch.) Bless me, 
it's- ten to one, I must let you get to bed, Bee. Good- 
night, my dear. 

{He kisses her on the forehead, she submitting automatic 
cally to his kiss : neither of them took at each 
other.) 

Beatrice. Good-night, father. Good-night again, 
Monsieur Fourie. 

Felix. Good-night,' Mrs. Wishaw. A thousand 
excuses! I will not try to dream any more. 

{ITe bows and follows Sir EveraRD into the corridor.) 

• , (Beatrice closes the door on them.) 

Sir F^VERARD {heard outside saying jovially). Sleep 
well, my dear fellow ! No more visits from the grey 
lady. / / 

■Felix {murmurs). Ah no,' it was foolish of me. 

{The voices groiv fainter and die out. A door slams, 

'then another , far off. Beatrice locks her door and 

"IfMei^s? 'There is- silence kv the house. Beatrice 

'f leans against the door. Worn out u'ith strain and 

' itf^otion she begins to cry.) 

Curtain. 

Plays about ,28 minutes. 



ACT IV 

Scene . — TJie D innig-room . 

See plan on opposite page. 

{An Adams' room ivith white plaster walls and maho- 
gany doors. On the l. double doors lead to hall. 
At back R. a lofig Adams' sideboard, l. a service 
table. On the r. a circular -window, with a glass 
door R. leading on to a stone terrace. A glimpse 
of thje^Y^rden beyond. 

{A long table is set in ike centre of room. It is laid 
for breakfast. At the R. end of Sir Everard's 
chair, at the L. end Lady Chilworth's. There are 
four chairs on the upper side of table, facing th<i 
audience, two' on the lower, with their backs to audience. 
On the sideboard is a long array of covered dishes 
set over spirit lamps, and joints of cold meat. Coffee, 
. boiling water, etc., are on the service table. 

{As the curtain, rises the breakfast gong is sounded 
outside. Discovered at rise empty. Everything 
in readiness for breakfast. Window open. Enter 
Felix door l. He has a bad cold in his head and 
looks pale and miserable. Having ascertained that 
he is alone in the room, he crosses to r. and closes 
the window. Then goes tu sideboard, peers curiously 
under the covered dishes, but shudders at the cold 
meat amd turns -away. Enter Pascoe.) 

Felix {with a, sad imitation of a jocular English 

manner). Hello, Pascoe, 5/0U here ? 

97 G 



98 THE SON AND HEIR. 

Pascoe. Hello, Felix ! Ready for breakfast ? 
(Goes to sideboard and looks under covers.) 

FfiLix. Um, I am fairly ready, but the servants 
are not at all. ' ' 

Pascoe. Oh, you don't get any servants this meaL 

Felix {astonished) . Why not ? 

Pascoe (helping himself at sideboard). I don't know. 
It's a custom in good families. If you can only 
afford to keep one servant she waits on you at break- 
fast, but if you keep a large staff you have to wait 
on yourself. 

Felix (wearily). I wish I was visiting poor 
people this morning. {Siis chair i.) 

Pascoe. You don't like the system? {Comes 
down with plate L. of Felix.) 

Felix. Breakfast is the time I do not feel like 
working. 

PasCoe. What's the matter? You seem very 
sorry for yourself. 

Felix {sneezing). I have caught a slight cold. 

Pascoe (placing the plate he had prepared for him- 
self in front o/Felix) . Here, have some ham and eggs. 

Felix (pushing it away). Oh, ham and eggs do 
not speak to me this morning. 

(Pascoe takes plate, puts it in his place — No. 4.) 

When there are no servants is there no coffee either ? 

Pascoe. Plenty of coffee. I'll give you some. 
{Standing by Lady Chilworth's place he pours coffee.) 

(Felix sneezes.) 
Where did you manage to catch such a cold ? 

Felix {shrugging his shoulders). Oh, the Lord 
alone knows. It could have been anywhere here — 
this house is not particular. (As Pascoe hands him 
coffee) Thank you, my friend. 

Pascoe {pouring his own coffee). You do look 
washed out. Didn't you sleep? 

Felix. I heard horrible clocks striking every 



THE SON AND HEIR. 9» 

hour until daylight. Then I had just iaiien into\ 
the most beautiful sleep when I was roughly awak- 
ened by a red-haired footman holding a boiling cup of 
tea at my throat. , ,., 

Pascoe {sitting chair 4).' Poor old man ! Wl>at 
made you so restless ? 

Felix. I had an adventure in the night. 

Pascoe {puzzled). An adventure in the night ? 

Felix {bitterly). Oh, not that kind of adventure.' 
Nothing pleasant. Nothing to compromise your 
friends. : • 

Pascoe. What was it ? 

Felix. Imagine to yourself, I went to bed and 
was just dozing off when.suddenly I heard two shrieks, 
two piercing shrieks coming, as 1 thought, from 
the room opposite mine. 

Pascoe. But that's Mrs. Wishaw's room. {Stops 
eating and listens attentively.) 

Felix. I knew as much. I had seen her ador- 
able boots at the door. So you can imagine that 
when I heard cries for. help coming from her room, I 
lost no time. In a second,! had bounded out of bed, 
slipped on the first decent garments to be had in the 
dark and dashed across the corridor. 

Pascoe {perturbed). Well? ": 

Felix. Well, with the awful cries ringing in my 
ears still I have the discretion to knock. The (\QOr 
is opened by Mrs. Wishaw smiling, pleasant, not a 
hair out of place, in a very becoming tea-gown. 

Pascoe. Then 

Felix. And her father ! Also smiling, pleasant, 
in evening dress. 

Pascoe {perturbed -^ rises)]. . Her father ! Her 
father was there with her. ! 

Felix. They had been sitting there amiably 
chatting of family matters. A pretty domestic 
picture — just like one in your Royal Academy. 
(Drinks.) ; , , 

Pascoe. Was it late ? 



100 THE SON AND HEIR. 

Felix. Ncafl}/ two o'clock. They had forgotten 
the time. 

Pascoe {goes to him back of the chairs). But the 
screams? , 

Felix. There were no screams. They gave me 
pohtely to imderstancl that I was cither mad or had 
,^aten too much. 
. Pascoe.. > What ' happened then ? 

Felix. T lelt a fool. Sir Everard kissed his 
daughter on t|ie forehead, and she told me there was 
a ghost in m}/' room. 

Pascoe. Did she indeetl ? 

Felix (groaning). I might have slept if I had not 
known it. T might have slept a wink ! But to lie 
awake in a (poldiToom with a fire out and all your 
clothes piled on the bed, waiting for a ghost that 
screams in, the night — Oh, not any more, my friend, 
not any more. 

Pascoe. I'm sorry, old man. (Sits in his cJiair 
again.) If you Die nt ion it to Lady Chil worth perhaps 
she'll change your room to-night. 

Felix. No,, no, I cannot stop in this house another 
night. . ;, ' ,,,,^,', V 

■■■■'' {Extiamation fror/i Pascoe.) 

Felix. Do xx^i ^think me lacking in a sentiment of 
gratitufle, but.;!, feel that I should be ruining my 
health and wasting my time. 

.Pascoe. But/ 1 thoudit von wanted to study the 
English'?' ' ^ ' " 

Felix. I want to write about them. And what is 
there to bc' had but of this place ? Not a paragraph 1 
Not a headline i Not a thrill ! Nothing happens in 
this hpuse. I cgin see them going on like this for ^^ears 
— -allcalm and bold and proper. I might stay here 
until I am an old gentleman with white whiskers, 
and it will still be the same, Mama, Papa, children, 
butler and, red-haired footman, all respectable and 
in their propter places. 



THE SON AND HEIR. 101 

{Enter Cecil do ^r jX) 

Cecil. Morning. , . .' , 

Pascoe. Good morning, Cecil. • ,'' '' ' 

Felix. Good morning. Have you slept 'i^ell ? 
How are you this morning? ' ' ; ' ' \' * 

Cecil {shortly). All right, thanks. • {Go'iiig- straight 
to sideboard.) What is there to c^at ? (He Ipoks 
long and earnestly trader the covers, ^dj' all ihe dishes, 
then helps himself to porridge.) ' . \ ' ! '. 

Pascoe {to Cecil). Looks as if ii; was goirig t^be'a 
good day. '. ' ' ' ,! 

. Cecil. Yes. ■; • ''■' ,'.^^ ' . 

Pascoe. No frost last night. •, . 

Cecil. No. :-' / ''•-'',",' '. \ 

Pascoe. Almost wish I was foil o'wing the ho^mds 
myself to-day. , 

Cecil. So do I. {Coming doimt. Puts porridge 
on table.) /,'.' '■■_\ ,,' ' 

Pascoe. Why, aren^t you? '■' *'' ' "•'•'' • 

Cecil. No, blacklisted. {Going' i'^.' io get ^ some 
coffee.) '' ^ • 

Pascoe. That's so. I forgot' Pity. 

Cecil {hopefully) . It may freeze after all. 

Felix {who has listened with deepening glow at this 
dialogue). What train do you think I might take ? 

Pascoe {embarrassed). Well,' I'\^p ;got to leave 
early, but Sir Everard expects you, 'to" ^tay dn, ^yoii 
know. /"^^ ' f ■ 

Felix {loudly, for Cecil's 65;^^/^^).'"' My fOotliache 
is very bad. , , ' , 

{Enter Miss CHiLWORxa taftJeir.'L.) 

Miss Chilworth {with a great 'affect^ition of cheer- 
fulness). Good morning, everybody.' Cecil, get me 
a cup of coffee. ' .> ;>: > ''' 

{The Men r&^j'j' , ;,':'. '■''., V ■ 
Oh, please sit down ! I do hato. Bilking trouble. ■ 
(Felix resumes his 'seat.) ' ' '" ' '' 



102 THE SON AND HEIR. 

Pascoe {standing). What can I get you ? {Puts 
his plate on sideboard.) 

Miss Chilworth {going to sideboard). Now don't 
bother about an old woman dike me. I prefer wait- 
ing on myself. 

- Cecii. {comes down R. of table) . Other people never 
give you enough. {Gives Miss Chilworth's coffee 
to Pascoe who puts it on the table. Ceci'l then goes to 
his place.) . 

Miss Chilworth {serving herself). What a perfect 
day for the meet, isn't it ? 

Pascoe. Yes, rather. 

Miss Chilworth. Let us hope it doesn't snow. 
. Felix {desperate). Could, I have more coffee ? 

Pascoe. Pass yyur cup. 

Miss Chilworth (:^m/s, her plate doum next to Felix. 
Ttirni^ig and putting her hand between them for the cup.) 
Oh, let me pour it for you. Dear Mary isn't down 
yet. 

: Felix {rises, goes to . r. of Pascoe. Watching 
Cbcil .ear, fascinated ,, /o Pascoe aside). Is it not 
unnatural how that boy.is eatiiUg ? 

Pascoe. Unnatural ? An English schoolboy ? 
It would be unnatural if he didn't. 

(Felix crosses back of Pascoe for his cup.) 

{Enter Lady Chilworth door l. Miss Chilworth 

. ,,. ^ , gives coffee to Felix.) 

Pascoe and Felix {rising). Good morning, Lady 
Chilworth. . . , . 

(Felix ji^o^s back to his place with his coffee.) 

. . Lai>y Chilworth. Oh, you all down so soon ? 



F. MissO. V. 

l____l___L 



Lady 



I 
Cecii. 



THE SON AND HEIR. lOa 

{Goes to her place at end of table.) 

Miss Chilworth. Can I get you ?: cup of Coffee, 
Mary ? 
Lady Chilworth. Thanks. 

(Pascoe goes to sideboard at back. Miss Chilworth 
brings coffee down to Lady Chilworth, then takes 
her own place. No. 2.) 

Pascoe. A little bacon, Lady Chilworth ? 
Lady Chilw^orth. Yes, please. 

(Pascoe helps her.) , . •' 

Looks as if they were going to have a good day again. 

Pascoe. We were just saying that. {Coming 
down with bacon to Lady Chil"^orTh.) • 

Miss Chilworth. No fro.st last night. 

Pascoe. No ! 

Lady Chilworth. It's quite mild. 

Pascoe. Quite. 

Lady Chilworth. I think we might have a win- 
dow open in here. I don't know who closed it. 
(She looks at Cecil.) Cecil. 

{Reluctantly leaving his plate, he rises and goes to 
open a -window r. Felix casts a piteous look at 
Pascoe. Enter Brock door l;) 

Brock. Good morning. 

Miss Chilworth and Lady Chilworth. Good 
morning. , - 

Pascoe. Good morning, Brock. n.,- 

(Brock goes to service table for' coffee.) 

Felix {rises, goes to Brock : grimly determifped 
to get it in first this time). Splendid weather for 
hounds, is it not ? No frost, very mild, eh, what ? 

Brock {surprised). Yes, very. 

Felix {resuming his place: to himself). I said it 
first. 



,104 THE SON AND HEIR. 

.(Brock gels egg and bacon from service fable.) 

Lady Chilworth. Everard's feeling seedy this 
morning. He's having breakfast in bed. His 
father's quite upset about him.' 

Felix. I regret' to hear this of your promising 
eldest son, Lady Chilworth. 

./Brock {coming to his place, No. 5 — at hotiom of 
table next to Cecil). Has he a temperature ? 

Lady Chilworth {seriously). Oh yes — just on 99. 

Brock {with apparent solemnity). Oh, he must 
(liave overdone it yesterday. 

Felix. Too much Caesar, eh what ? 

Lady Chilworth (seriously). That's what Sir 
Everard thinks. 

''"''' (Felix sneezes.) 

Brock. You've a very bad coki. Monsieur Fourie. 
Lady Chilworth {surprised: lo Felix). Oh! 
■''•L; -til at air too 'mucli for you? 

(Felix nods and bloi^s his nose.) 
Cecil ! 

■ (Cecil annoyed at having to leave Ms plate a second 
■ time, rises and closes inndoi^j.) 

Felix {gratefully). Thank you, Lady Chilworth. 

Lady Chilworth. You can't have caught your 
cold here, cgm you ? 

Felix {with a pale smile). -Oh no. Not all of it. 
I have also a very bad toothache. 

iMiss Chilworth irises). Toothache ? 

Felix. I fear I must hasten to London to see a 
dentist. 

'Miss Chilworth. Oh, you won't need to do that, 
{Going to sideboard.) There's an excellent dentist here 
in \}\Q. village. 
_ . Felix {looking at her savagely). Indeed ? 



THE SON ^ND HEIR. "'*105 

{Enter Sir Everard -^oo;- l. He is rather pdie and 
nervous hiU- self-contained.)- , i 

Sir Everard. Good morning. •■•! 

All. Good morning. i' >•' 

Pascoe. How's, the invalid ? 

Sir Everard {at sideboard). You mean Evera.rd ? 
Seedy. I've just come from him. I shan't hunt 
to-day. 

Miss Chilworth («z! sideboard, putting her' plate 
down). Is his temperature rising ? 

Sir Everard. Yes.' If he's not better sooti, I 
shall send for Warner. 

(Pascoe moves Miss Chilworth's cup.) 

Miss Chilworth. I must see if there's anything 
I can do for the poor dear boy. 

{Exit double doors l.) ! 

Felix {turning to Cecil who has just helped himself 
at sideboard again, respectfully). You have a line 
appetite. 

(Cecil comes down.) ' ■ • / 

Cecil {surprised), ,0h, fairish. It's not up) to 
much this morning. .,(C/ross^s below table, sits in his 
chair.) 

FelijR Amy Pascoe 



Sir 
Everard 



Lady 
Chilworth 



Brock ' . Cecil ' 

{Enter Amy door l., crosses to her mother'') 

Amy. Good niorning. {Kisses her mother on 
the cheek.) How are you, Monsieur Fourie. , (tfo^s 
to sideboard where Sir Everard joins her.) y. 

Sir ^v-erakd (aHkiously). Where's Beatrice? 
Isn't Beatrice dowi^i yet ? \ 

Amy. She's justv finished getting hei^ things to- 



106 THE SON AND HEIR. 

gether. She's leaving so early. {Goes to her place 
and sits.) 

Sir Everard {jerkily). Oh^ — leaving early, is 
she ? {Goes to his chair.) ' 

Lady Chilworth. Tidder tells me she ordered 
the motor to be here at a quarter to ten. 

Pascoe. I'm afraid I must be going early, too. 

Sir Everard. Nonsense, Pascoe. We won't 
hear of it. I intend to keep you here with me. 

Pascoe. I've promised to take the first train up, 
Sir Everard. 

(Enter Beatrice door l. ' She is dressed for her 
journey and already wears her motor bonnet, with 
the veil throivn hack. Felix, Pascoe, Brock rise, 
hut Felix and Brock sit again at once.) 

Beatrice {to the room). Good morning. {Kissing 
Lady Chilworth.) Good morning, mother. 

Lady Chilworth. You're in a great rush to leave 
us this morning. Bee. 

Beatrice {looks at Pascoe). I promised. {Looks 
for a seat.) 

Amy. Beside me! 

Beatrice {taking chair). Of course. Amy dear. 

Pascoe. What can I get you ? {Standing behind 
her.) 

Beatrice. Nothing, thanks. I couldn't swallow 
a mouthful. Just a cup of coffee. 
(Brock rises, goes tip to hack to sideboard. Felix 
sneezes.) •< 

Lady Chilworth. Oh, you have got a bad cold, 
M. Fourie ! . , 

Felix. I wonder if I could have my overcoat ? 
It's somewhere? in the hall. . . 

Lady Chilworth. Certainly. Cecil will get it for 
"you. Cecil ! 

' {Exits Cecil doiihle^ doors l.) 



THE HON AND HEIR. 107 

Sir Everard (in a 'bantering manner, hut clearly 
enough to make all at the table listen. Pushes his 
chair back a little). Do you know, Bee, you put me in 
a difficulty by rushing off like this ? 

Beatrice. I do, father ? 

Sir Everard. Yes. I've an announcement to 
make. 

Beatrice. An announcement ? 

Sir Everard. And T want to make it while you're 
here. 

Beatrice {wonderingly). Then you must make it 
now, father. 

■ Sir Everard. Well, if this is the only opportunity, 
I must. Your sister Amy and John Brock are going 
to be married. 

Service 
Table 



Brock 



Beatrice [startled). What! {Sits rigid as if 
unable to realize his zvords.) 



F. B. A. P. 



Lady 

C. 



Brock {coming down). What ? 

Sir Everard (^fo Brock). I tell you I consent to 
your engagement. What inore do you want ? 

Brock. Nothings sir— I 

Amy (m(?s) , Father ! You don't mean it! 

Sir Everard {testily). I am not in the habit of 
making statements I don't mean. 

(Amy rises, as if with the intention of going to her 
father, but pauses at the back of Beatrice's chair. 
Pascoe, alarmed at Beatrice's strange look, leans 
over and puts his hand on her arm. She looks down 



108 THE SON AND' HEIR. 

■*•.'■ 

at his hand, gives a liUle ohiver,-and draws her arm 
away from hii^.)' 

Lady Crilwortk {cold and 'Incredulous). This is 
the first I\'e hi^ard of this aTi*aV>g6ment, Everard. 

Sir Everard. 'Von ■will; yec. it in the Mornii^g 
Post in, the course of a^ day (>r twoi, my dear, and then 
perhaps you'll bC/lieve; it.! .i ;:; ; 

Amy {clutching i the ■ ~ba,qk .of .BnATiucE's chair). 
But, father, yesterday you said: 

Sir Everard. Well; you hear^phat I say to-day. 
I laid awake all night iconsiderfinig the matter. And 
it's settled ! There, you've, my blessing. {Bringing 
his hand down' dn table,)' , i Good J,ieavens, now you've 
all got what you want you seem petrified! Have 
you nothing to say, Bee? 

Beatrice {realizing what it's gping to mean for her, 
finding her voice with. difficiiUy).-, 1 — I'm glad— I'm 
glad for the?n. 

(Amy goes ta ,Brqck.) 

Pascoe {coming to the rescue). If s come as a great 
surprise. Sir Everard. But every oni.* who knows 
Amy and who knows Brock can't fail to congratulate 
them most heartily. ; , . o ,\ i 

Amy. Oh, father, fatiher !' {She falls on Sir 
Everard' s neck, weeping.) 

Sir Everard. Good Dotrl'f -What's the matter 
now ? 

Amy. I'm so— happy. • ; 

Sir Everard {emhaffassed^'Ho Amy). You'll ruin 
my collar. Take her out into the air, Brock, there's 
a good chap. Go for a walk'in the grounds. 

Brock. Yes, yes. {Drti'mngiyAmv gently away.) 
Come with me, dear^i ./ , :(» 

Amy {laughing happiLy).\; (i)h^ JoJm, it can't be 

true. 

; I A^.<A) 

{Gazing into each oih-er's eyes, they go out window 
R. 'together.)' 



THK RQ.N -AND HEIE. 109 

Felix {rises, goes .to ^mindazv, looking after them). 
They will take cold. ' 

Pascoe. No, they^won't. 

(Sir Eyerasd, .rises with Jiis plate.) 

■ Felix {corner to \v.' of Sit? Ev^rard, ivmiing grate- 
fully to him) . Ah, I am glad to have fallen upon this 
interesting occasion. In France we give a formal 
dinner to "announce a^betrothal. Here you announce 
it at breakfast I ' 

Sir Everard {crosses below Felix, takes plate 
down to table ^o"^?^ r:}' ' Hum. 1 Well, not always ! 
' Lady ChilworthX^^o BeAtrice jealously). I sup- 
pose you knew abouf this before. Bee? 

Beatrice {loolmigsfrangely at her mother). No! 
(Rising and speaking p^'Jjdenly as if she feared her 
courage might givamstJ) I con granulate you, father. 
{She passes^ Felix aM-goes , to ker father.) 
(PXscoe rises.) 

Lady Ceilwortk. "My dear, you mean you con- 
gratulate Amy. ' (-' ■■ '■ '^ '-■- •■ 

Beatrice . No,, I '.congratulate father. {She holds 
out her hand.) i ■ . .. ■ • 

Sir Everard. [Takes if.) 

Beatrice. It's' all right.. . .,, ■ 

{They stand looking into ^ach^^ other's eyes, as if they 
had both suddenly discovered each other. Pascoe^ 
instinctively conscious of th^. struggle in Beatrice's 
mind, has not ^ahen\ his 'eye^ .from her since Sir 
Everard's aKno^ncqij^^rd.,, Mnter Tij)DEK door l.) 

Tidder (to- Lady; ((i:iriL worth.- Mrsv Wishaw's 
motor is at the door;> m'iM]/. 

Lady Chilworth. Oh, your motor's here, Bee. 
I'll see if they've piit? yc(ur things in. - 

{Exits l.) 

(Beatrice wUHyoa^^ tier 'hmd from Sir Everard.) 



110 THE SON AND HEIR. 

TiDDER. Shall I get your coat, ma'am ? 
Beatrice {goes to him). Bring it to me outside, 
Tidder. 

Felix. Oh, permit me. I will be the one to help 
you on. 

{Exit L., folloived by Tidder.) 

(Sir Everard sits on chair, picks up paper, reads it.) 

{Warn curtain.) 

(Sir Everard waits without moving to see what Bea- 
trice will do. She turns to face Pascoe down l.c. 
He realizes that she is going to fail him.) 

Beatrice {resolutely, holding out her hand to 
Pascoe). Good-bye. 

Pascoe {taking her hand and keeping it — blankly). 
Good-bye ? {Stammering, trying^ to appeal to her 
without letting Sir Everard see.) But — but — I'm 
going too ! 

Beatrice. No ! 

Pascoe. Won't you give me a lift as far as the 
station ? 

Beatrice. I'm sorry. It's out of my way. 

Pascoe. You won't take me — a little way 

{She looks at her father, who is watching her.) 

Beatrice. I don't think father intends to let you 
go yet. He wants to keep you here with your friend. 
You're hurting my hand, Pascoe. 

Pascoe {relinquishing her hand). Sorry. 

Beatrice {crosses r. about to shake hands with 
Sir Everard). Good-bye, father. 

Sir Everard {rises). I'll put you into your car. 
{Crosses above table c. to Pascoe l.c, his hand on. 
Pascoe's shoulder.) I'm glad you're staying, Pascoe. 

{Crosses above Pascoe and exits double doors l.) 
(Beatrice crosses l.) 
Pascoe {stopping her, by double doors l.). My 



THE SON AND HEIR. HI 

God, Beatrice, you're not going to leave me like 
this — I can't give you up— I won't ! 

Beatrice {looking up at him). I love you, Pascoe 
— nothing can alter that, but father has done the 
right thing. I've got to stand by him now. 

Pascoe. I can't- bear it; — I can't let you go out 
of my life like this. 

Beatrice. Not out of my life, dear — we belong 
to each other. Nothing really can part us — nothing. 

Pascoe. Shall I never see you again ? Is there 
no hope ? 

Beatrice. You have been so patient. The future 
- — who knows ! Will you wait ? 

Pascoe. Wait, Beatrice ? Always ! Always ! 
But you must get free — you shall get free. 

Beatrice. Oh, Pascoe — good-bye 

Felix {outside). Mrs. Wishaw ! 

Beatrice. Good-bye. 

{Exit L.) 
(Pascoe comes down to c. helow table.) 
Felix {outside). My dear Mrs. Wishaw — the 
pleasure of meeting you will be one of the many 
exquisite memories of 1 his visit. 

Beatrice {outside). Good-bye, Monsieur Fourie. 
Felix {outside). Good-bye, Mrs. Wishaw, good- 
bye. 

{Enter. Felix.) 

Felix {joining Pascoe down c). What a charming 
woman that Mrs. Wishaw. She might be French ! 

Pascoe. No ! {Turning and gripping Felix 
fiercely by the shoulder.) She's English — English 
through and through ! {Slight pause.) What did I 
tell you about the English, Fehx ? Didn't I say 
that we were muddlers and martyrs ? Write this 
in your book, that there's one sure way of making the 
English sell their very souls — persuade 'em that 
they're playing the game ! 



112 THE SON AND HEIR. 

Felix. Do not call the English foolish because 
of that. For when men ;play the game the Good 
God does. ' 

Pascoe. Ybu/re right, Felix ! And that's my 
hope ! 

Curtain. 
Plays about fifteen minutes. 



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